


Knotted

by naughtyspirit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bed Sex, Boys Kissing, Confessions, Escape, Frustrated John, Frustration, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Mittens - Freeform, Mutual Masturbation, Naked Cuddling, Rescue, Sexual Frustration, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtyspirit/pseuds/naughtyspirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has to cancel a date because of Sherlock's case, which leads them to be tied up in a basement from which they have to escape.</p><p>They get wet, get tied up close and John has to step up and save them.</p><p>Because he's pretty. And hot. And just a little bit of a BAMF.</p><p>Any comments, criticisms and love very much welcome.</p><p>~~~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John could be naked right now.

He started the day believing that he would be able to get their groceries in, clean the bathroom of all the crap that's accumulated and go out on his date with Amy without worrying that Sherlock would make things worse. The plan fell apart immediately; a client blundered upstairs and promised that there was something interesting to do. The something interesting was decidedly dangerous instead and all John's good intentions were almost instantly disposed of.

The fridge still contains seventeen severed fingers, half a carton of milk past its expiry date and the left over Thai from Tuesday. The bathroom is still in need of a good scrub down and there is still a damp towel in front of the shower cubicle. Amy is the worst of this, because instead of John accompanying her to a pleasant little restaurant, she is spending the night with her girlfriends, picking apart the good doctor and his unreliability. John isn't getting his leg over any time soon and if he weren't already certain that tonight will end very badly, he'd be more pissed off than he already is.

The something dangerous turned out to be a small gang of gentlemen who didn't appreciate Sherlock's instant analysis of their thievery. They certainly didn't like the way he and John tracked them down and they were most put out when Sherlock delivered a pretty little lecture on how foolish they'd been. When he reached the part where the entire set up was doomed to failure, they lost all patience and dealt with both Sherlock and John quickly and with devastating efficiency.

This is the reason they are both currently tied up, back to back, sitting in the cellar of one of the abandoned factories on the docks. The tide is already coming in and they are both aware of the slosh of water in the farthest reaches of the room. The knots are tight, the rope is wet and John doesn't have any idea how to get free. Given Sherlock's silence the past five minutes, he can only hope that the man is thinking and there will be some great plan that will release them before the tide comes in.

John shifts as best he can, his fingers pushing insistently against Sherlock's back. He touches the fabric of the heavy coat and shoves as hard as he can. "Sherlock," he says, keen to keep calm despite their current predicament. "Any ideas?"

"Five," says Sherlock slowly and John can feel the tug of the rope where their wrists are bound. It draws his arm up a little painfully and John bears it as best he can. The rope doesn't give and John hears the huff behind him. "Four."

"Brilliant," says John. "Want to let me in on the plan?"

"I don't have a plan," says Sherlock. "Our situation is a little more challenging than I'd expected."

"Challenging?" John tries to move to see Sherlock's expression and can't quite do it. "Sherlock, if you hadn't been so bloody minded, we wouldn't be here right now."

"Somehow I doubt that," says Sherlock and John clears his throat.

"You called the man with the Glock a mindless idiot and somehow didn't think it would bother him. God, we didn't even have back up!"

"I had you."

John shakes his head. "No, the man with the big kitchen knife had me. You just _had_ to be clever at them."

" _You_ could have been clever at them," says Sherlock mildly and sighs. "They were using scarcely any cover and we discovered them in under three hours."

"No, you discovered them," says John. "I just tagged along in case you got in trouble."

"Bravo."

"Did you have any idea that they'd be so well armed?" asks John as he stares at the wall. "I could be sitting across the table from a beautiful blonde right now."

"The dog walker?" asks Sherlock. "Best not, John. She talks to the dogs in gibberish."

"She baby talks them," huffs John. "She's really nice."

"Dull," says Sherlock. "They're always ' _nice_ '. You never bring anyone interesting home. It's suggestive."

"Suggestive of what?" says John and frowns before he tugs at the rope again. "Look, forget it. Let's just work out how to get out of here. Can you reach your phone? Text your brother for help?"

"They took it," says Sherlock and John can pick up the note of petulance even from this angle. "And yours too, when you passed out."

"I didn't pass out, they knocked me out," says John. He drops his head back against Sherlock's shoulder. "Okay, so no phone and they've probably taken my Swiss Army knife."

"And your wallet," says Sherlock. "Anything that identifies you."

"Fantastic," says John and catches a breath. "I'm just tied to you, right?"

"Obviously," drawls Sherlock.

"Then we can work on the knots."

"Too tight," says Sherlock. "Three."

"Hmm?"

"Three ideas," says Sherlock. "You wouldn't have had a good night with the dog walker. She wouldn't share a bed with you."

"Excuse me? She said she had plans."

"Of course she had plans. Women do. It doesn't mean they'll sleep with you."

John rolls his eyes. "You don't have a clue. Her texts have always been pretty saucy."

"Oh yes? _Hey handsome, I bet you can't guess the colour of my knickers_."

"You read my texts?"

"It flashed up on the screen when I borrowed it." Sherlock leans back, bracing himself against John. John can feel the brush of curls against his cheek when the man lolls and he lifts a shoulder to get them away. Sherlock isn't so easily moved though. "They're white, by the way."

John clears his throat again, his arms aching and his head stinging where the brute elbowed him. "No. I'm not talking about my girlfriend's underwear with you."

"There's precious little else she does talk about," says Sherlock. "However, given the pattern indicated by her texts, she means you to think that they're black, but since you don't have a hope of seeing them, they're clearly white."

"I really don't want to think about how you think you know what colour her knickers are," says John. "Leave it."

"You should be thanking me," says Sherlock. "You'd come home bad tempered and frustrated if you went on your date."

"Yes, because being tied to you in a flooding cellar is _so_ much better."

"Oh yes, the tide," says Sherlock and wriggles slightly. It doesn't help John at all and he tries to move.

"Sherlock, can you get to your knees?"

"I can't get purchase on the floor," says Sherlock. "My feet are wet."

John drops his head forward against his chest. "And you're worried about catching a cold?"

"Because the water's rising," says Sherlock. "Do keep up, John. We're in some small danger here."

"Some small...? We could die, Sherlock!"

"Oh, possibly," says Sherlock and pushes back hard against John. The movement scoots John a little closer to the wall and he cries out. "Move yourself, John."

"What are you doing?" asks John, scuffing his feet against the floor. Sherlock shifts a few feet before John realises that he may be able to get to his feet closer to the wall and he stops resisting. "Okay, you could have  just told me."

"Reach the wall, brace yourself against me and stand up," says Sherlock drily. "The water's coming in rather rapidly now, John, so it'd be wise to move quickly."

"Moving," says John and digs his feet in as best he can. It's a long way from being graceful, but it does seem to be effective. Slow, but effective and they shuffle toward the wall, pausing only when there's a pipe in the way. John feels simultaneously cold and sweaty. His hands are hot where they're practically grasping at Sherlock's fingers and coat. His legs and buttocks are cold where the water is beginning to fill the room and John's working very hard to ignore the concern that he'll slip and they'll both be done for.

"Okay," says John as his toes touch the bottom of the nearest wall. "You ready?"

"Yes," says Sherlock and John shifts, splashing as he focuses all his body strength on moving upward. His first effort goes nowhere at all and he sits down hard, bum most assuredly bruised and he slips down against Sherlock's back. His arms are yanked up and he would be in a far worse state if Sherlock hadn't grabbed hold of him, hands twisted uncomfortably to do so.

"Fuck," he murmurs and Sherlock keeps his grip.

"Let's try that again, hmm?" asks Sherlock. "I'll push back harder."

"Story of my life," says John and struggles before he can get a grip. He grits his teeth and pushes upward, the rope round his wrists chafing and his shoes slipping in the water. He can feel the sweat slicking his back and chest and his hair is damp at the roots. By the time he's got his knees bent, he can feel Sherlock moving behind him and it feels like they might actually be able to get out. "Easy there," he says as Sherlock slips again. The water is up to John's knees and his toes are starting to go numb. His teeth are chattering and he can't quite get his focus. "Well, we're upright," says John and sloshes slightly in the water. "Can't afford to fall over though. We try to walk like this we'll be over before we get to the door."

"Agreed," says Sherlock and huffs. "John, are you feeling up to a little physical work?"

"Will it get us out of here?"

"It should do," says Sherlock and spreads his feet. "I need you round the other way."

"What?"

"In front of me. You're going to have to use your feet on the wall and back flip to get in front of me."

John stares at the wall hard enough that it blurs in front of his eyes. "You are _kidding_." He huffs out a long breath. "I think my days on the beam are behind me."

"John, listen to me," says Sherlock calmly. "All you have to do is brace yourself against me. One foot in front of the other and walk up the wall. I'll bear your weight. When you get as high as you can, just drop back and even if your feet slip, I'll be right here to get you upright again."

John licks his bottom lip before he offers a quick nod. "You really owe me a drink after this."

"I'll buy you dinner," says Sherlock and John can hear the chuckle in his voice. Sherlock has always been at his brightest when he's close to the edge. This is no different and John has always run fast to keep up. Tonight he'll defy gravity for his friend and he steps forward, one foot pushing against the wall, still underwater and he takes a deep breath.

"I didn't think," he says as he moves steadily against the wall and leans back on Sherlock, "that I'd need my stamina for this."

"Pace yourself," says Sherlock. "We're not out of it yet."

John laughs wildly and his foot slips. He cries out and struggles to get his balance. "This is so stupid," he snaps and lifts his leg again. He can feel the ache in his back and he's very conscious that all his weight is on Sherlock and the water is still rising. "I am _not_ drowning in Wapping."

"Glad to hear it," says Sherlock. "Get in front of me, would you?"

John closes his eyes and pushes as hard as he can, both feet steadied against the wall and he can feel the world tipping. For a long moment it feels like he's in free fall and the sensation is not new. It feels very old and the sand is a long time away now but just for a second he's there again. The moment breaks and suddenly he's tumbling, falling and he can feel the roll of his back against Sherlock's own. John feels as though he's unravelling, head over heels until his neck is against Sherlock's shoulder and he hears the other man groan.

The noise itself is a short sharp retort in the room and John's past it quickly, but it resonates. John comes down fast, legs splashing into the water that's deeper than when he started and he gasps loudly as it sloshes up past thighs and soaks his jeans through. His balls are cold and wet and the shock is enough to make him lose his footing. Sherlock's hands are firm over his own and when he stumbles, the detective grips back, fingers sliding over the familiar and John stares up at his friend.

Sherlock twitches a quick smile and settles long fingers against John's wrists where the rope has draw up tight. The skin beneath is tender and rubbed raw in places, but Sherlock is sure and deft and John finds his smile sooner than he expected. "It's bloody cold," he says and tests his footing out as he tries to turn. "Where's the way out?"

"Over there," says Sherlock and shivers visibly. John stares at him and rubs his thumb against Sherlock's palm.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," says Sherlock. "Turn round John, let's get out of here."

They move quickly toward the door, pausing only when Sherlock slips and John's leg stiffens. It's less than twenty feet, but wading takes its time and John mounts the first step with relief, glad to be heading out of the freezing water. "You don't think they're still out there?"

"They planned to be back tomorrow morning," says Sherlock. "To find the bodies."

"I'd prefer we weren't here for that," says John and tugs at Sherlock to step up and out of the water. "Come on. We'll make it to the street and flag down a cab. I'll pay Mrs Hudson back."

"At this time of night?" says Sherlock. "Not here. We can get to the central line more quickly."

"No money," says John. "Look, there's bound to be a police station close by. Let's just get there, get these ropes undone and get home." He looks at Sherlock carefully and catches the shiver. "Maybe get you to hospital."

"I don't need hospital," sneers Sherlock and steps up. "Dundee street, two minutes away."

"Hmm?" asks John, walking up the steps and keeping a close eye on Sherlock.

"The police station. If you want to spend the night answering questions. Or, we can head that way," says Sherlock with a nod of his head. "Get home and you can doctor away to your heart's content."

John raises an eyebrow. "The last thing I need is you as my patient," he huffs. "You don't listen."

"On the contrary, John. I listen to everything you say."

"Really?"

"Everything of value."

"Huh," says John and lifts their hands. "Okay genius, tell me how we're going to get through the underground with our hands tied up?"

Sherlock looks down at the knots. "Well, obviously it might cause a few glances."

"Less than blood spatters and a harpoon though?"

"Possibly," says Sherlock. "This is the East end after all."

John grins at him as his teeth start to chatter and he steps out into the night sky. There are street lights flickering close by and John's not surprised that his legs feel leaden. He's drenched all the way up to his chest and when Sherlock exhales out he can see it, dragon breath misting the night air. They're both shivering as they make their way toward the underground and on Sherlock's second misstep John turns to really look at him. Sherlock might be the best at just about everything he puts his hand to, but surviving being soaked and knocked out might just rank alongside his efforts with a yo-yo and John isn't having any of it.

He straightens up, walks toward the group of lads at the edge of the street and gestures to one of them to come closer. "Mate," he says. "You got a knife?"

"John," begins Sherlock and John ignores him.

"A blade, anything?" he asks and the nearest boy raises an eyebrow. "Come on, mate. I just want to cut the rope. That's all."

The kid shrugs his shoulders. "What's it worth?"

John grins but there's little humour in it. "Look, I haven't got anything on me now but-"

"My watch," says Sherlock. "Cut the ropes, take my watch."

The kid grins and steps forward, his fingers flexing as he draws a blade, his friends closing in behind him. "What if I just take the watch?"

"What if you don't," says John firmly and lifts his wrist. "Like he said, cut the rope."

The kid considers John carefully before he steps forward and draws his knife over the ropes that bind them. He keeps his eyes on John as he saws through and immediately that one coil is clear, John draws his hand out and eases it off Sherlock as well. He pulls open the watch strap from Sherlock's wrist and turns back to their reluctant helper. "Take it and go."

"Who's gonna make us?"

John flexes his hand, the feeling flooding all the way back and ignores the discomfort. He straightens up,  chin raised and steps forward, keeping Sherlock behind him. "I don't _have_ to make you," he says quietly and the kid's grin falters ever so slightly. John holds his gaze long enough for the kid to shake his head.

"Let's just get out of here," says the kid and backs off. "No point hanging round a couple of poufs all night."

John's lip barely twitches but he watches them slip off past a couple of streetlights before he turns back to Sherlock and grabs his arm.

"Every time," he says. "I swear I could be dripping in women and they'd still think I was shagging you."

"You don't look at them the same way," murmurs Sherlock and John frowns. His teeth are chattering and the long coat only serves to keep in the cold and wet. "It was a good watch."

"Yeah, it's lovely. I'll get you another one," says John and wraps his arm round Sherlock's back. John lifts the man's arm to rest over his shoulder and is surprised how quickly Sherlock slumps. It's not usual and John's concern drives quick decisions. He walks quickly and be damned with how his own legs feel. Be damned with how his wrists feel as he gets them to the nearest brightly lit street. He can feel Sherlock slipping back and he tightens his grip. "I thought you were indestructible."

"It's all lies," says Sherlock and drops his head against John's. "John, can we just rest a few minutes?"

"Not yet," says John and glances round before he spots a miracle. The cab is just across the road and still on duty and John could kiss the driver for being in the right place. He squeezes Sherlock's hip with his far hand and gets him to the car. Sherlock drops into the seat and falls against John as he gives the address. John wraps an arm round Sherlock and nods to the driver. "He'll be fine," he says and the cabbie sniffs.

"Fifty quid if he pukes," says the cabbie and John nods and turns away, his chin resting against the curls on top of Sherlock's head.

"Try not to," says John quietly. "I hope Mrs Hudson's in. They took my keys."

"We'll get them back," murmurs Sherlock and his fingers wrap round John's middle as he tries to get closer.  Minutes seem to pass before John hears a quiet, "I may have slightly miscalculated."

"Oh, you mean you didn't intend for us to end up like this?"

"Not here," says Sherlock and John frowns. He strokes a hand over Sherlock's shoulder.

"It'll be fine," says John. "We'll get in, get you in the tub and something to eat. You'll be right as rain in no time."

There's a grunt against his chest where Sherlock's slumped and John squeezes him hard to keep him awake. "Tired," is the complaint and John rolls his eyes.

"Well, if you slept like a normal person, you wouldn't have a problem," he says and sighs. He catches sight of the clock on the dashboard and groans. "We'd have finished dinner by now."

"You would," says Sherlock, breathing into John's shirt. "The dog walker would be faking orgasm over her Death by Chocolate."

"Amy doesn't fake orgasm," says John and pauses. "Why?"

"Because she wants you to think she'll go to bed with you," says Sherlock. "And when you took her home there'd be a kiss and she'd step inside and say, 'not yet'."

John huffs. He's cold and he's wet and his best friend may well be developing hypothermia in the back of a cab. He isn't in the best mood to talk about his girlfriend's teasing strategy, though he knows damn well it describes the last three dates they've been on. He hasn't got Amy into bed yet, but the constant teasing and promises keep him going and he's told himself that it'll be worth it when he finally gets her knickers off. After all, she doesn't insult criminals and get him pistol whipped.

She doesn't take him on long jaunts through London's nightlife and she never makes him stare in disbelief. Amy isn't that kind of girl. She's the kind who flirts and lets him flirt back and never makes John question a single thing she says. She goes out on nice polite dates and sends him naughty texts and he hasn't even bothered to get a hand up her very polite jumpers. Sherlock's hand is currently on the bare skin of his belly where John's shirt has pulled out and all John can think is that the flesh to flesh contact is especially welcome right now.

"You're already bored with her," says Sherlock.

"Shut up," says John and looks out the window, relieved at how quickly they're passing the miles toward home. "You don't know her."

"I know you," says Sherlock and shifts his head. He's still shivering and trying to scrunch himself smaller, long frame wrapped round as much of John Watson as possible. "Two more dates and you'll make your excuses."

"Can we just wait to tear apart my latest relationship until you're not freezing to death?" asks John. "Seriously, Sherlock. Let's get you home."

Fortunately for them both, Mrs Hudson is awake and more sympathetic than either one of them deserve. The cabbie gets sent away with most of the money in her purse and she fusses round them both and promises soup. "What you boys get up to," she murmurs as John walks Sherlock up the stairs. "Detective Inspector Lestrade popped by earlier with all your personals."

"What?" asks John and Mrs Hudson scurries behind him.

"Sherlock sent him a text," she says. "And when he picked up those men, he found all your things but he couldn't find you."

John looks at Sherlock as he pauses on the step. "You sent a text?"

"I said it wasn't what I planned," says Sherlock and steps up. "Everything upstairs, Mrs Hudson?"

"Of course," she says. "He said he'll be back round tomorrow to talk to you about it. I'll just let him know you got home, shall I?"

"Yes, please do," says Sherlock and when John stands still, he tugs. "Come on, John. Let's get these wet clothes off."

Mrs Hudson flutters slightly and heads back downstairs to make something hot for them both and when they get through the door, Sherlock drops the heavy coat the floor. He turns and John glares at him. "What?"

"Oh nothing," says John. "You contacted Lestrade and didn't mention it?"

"He didn't know where _we_ were," says Sherlock as he lifts his hand to unfasten his shirt and drops it when his fingers won't bend. "It wasn't relevant."

"Wasn't relevant?" says John and stands firm. "I thought no-one had a clue what was going on and you'd been in contact with Lestrade and didn't tell me."

Sherlock sighs heavily and gestures to his shirt. "John, I contacted Detective Inspector Lestrade with all the details. Now will you please help me get my clothes off?"

John shakes his head but he walks over and reaches up to unfasten Sherlock's shirt. "I thought we were alone."

"We were alone!"

John tugs hard enough to rip the wet material and drags it from Sherlock's body. "I've just dragged you half across London and let some little thug take your watch. I'm wet. I'm cold. I am not in the mood to hear this was all part of your plan."

"I didn't know we'd be in a cellar."

John glances up and reaches for Sherlock's belt, his own fingers stiff from the night behind them. "You just don't apologise, do you?"

"I gave them my watch," says Sherlock and winces when John pulls the belt roughly free and it hits his bare arm.

John stares at him. "I should tie you to the bed, keep you out of trouble. Get five minutes of peace for a change!"

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. "You don't want peace."

"Oh shut up," says John and slides Sherlock's trousers down. Sherlock puts a very cold hand on his shoulder and John pulls off his shoes and throws them as far away as possible. He yanks off Sherlock's trousers and gets back up off his knees. "You don't know what I want."

"I do."

"No, you don't," says John and pushes Sherlock's pants down. They slither to the floor and make a wet slapping sound as they hit. John clears his throat as he keeps his gaze on Sherlock's face. "You could have done that yourself, couldn't you?"

"Yes," says Sherlock. "The belt was a bit tricky but the rest..." He shrugs. "John, I am feeling very naked and a little cold."

"Right," says John and pulls his sweater over his head. His tshirt is sodden and clings to his chest and he feels oddly like an advert from the eighties. "Go and get your dressing gown on."

"No point," says Sherlock. His bottom lip is both pouty and quivering and he rubs a hand over his arm. "Yours is warmer."

"No," says John and when he takes in how much Sherlock is shivering he manhandles him to the bathroom and puts him under the shower. He kicks his shoes off and climbs in after him, feeling the warm water bounce over his skin. He struggles with mostly numb fingers to pull his jeans down and his nose bashes against Sherlock's left cheek as he bends down. "Scuse me," he says and stands up again, his tshirt a soggy mess on the floor. Sherlock shivers and John rubs his hands up and down Sherlock's arms to try and improve circulation. "To be honest," he says, his teeth chattering. "I didn't think I'd be naked with you tonight."

"Your chances with me have always been substantially higher than with Amy," says Sherlock. "John, you're jiggling me."

"I'm rubbing you," says John. "Don't try and cheapen this."

"I'm not the one with double entendres," says Sherlock and clears his throat. "John, not that I don't appreciate your thoroughness, but I have spent quite enough time wet this evening. Can we please get dry now?" There's no response and Sherlock raises his voice. "John?"

John blinks. He's aware that he's cold, that he's warming up some not by being in the shower but by the press of naked flesh to naked flesh. He has no objection at all to naked flesh, but while he's spent a considerable amount of his life trying to get close to new naked flesh, he never suspected that Sherlock's naked body would be so damn good to be pressed up against. A little _too_ good to be pressed against, because while John might not always wear his heart on his sleeve, he does react quite physically to situations.

For example, he's reacting quite positively toward Sherlock's naked body and the evidence is currently pushing against Sherlock's right thigh. He gasps as he realises what he's doing and steps back slightly. Sherlock turns to look at John and John very quickly turns the shower off and scrambles for a towel. He tosses one toward Sherlock and hopes he grabs it as he dries every bit of himself off and tries very hard to push any thoughts of arousal from his head.

He's almost successful and as he looks back at Sherlock, John notices that the man's still shivering. He could send him to bed to warm up. He could bid him goodnight and go up to bed and put himself firmly back in the land of total denial. It's a possibility, but John has spent much of the evening, much of the past few months taking care of Sherlock and the idea of stopping actually irritates him. "Dry your hair."

"I know how to take care of myself," says Sherlock and shivers.

"Yeah, you've clearly demonstrated that tonight," says John and sighs before he reaches for the towel and scrubs at Sherlock's hair. "Look, don't say anything."

"Well, that's clearly not going to happen," says Sherlock and frowns as John grabs his hand. "And would you stop pulling me around. I am not a child!"

"No, I could wrap a child up and they'd behave," says John and takes Sherlock up the stairs to his bedroom. "Body heat," he says and Sherlock stares at him. "Just shut up now."

"I hadn't said anything," says Sherlock and climbs onto the bed as John pulls extra covers off the top of the wardrobe. "Were you planning to use this technique on Amy?"

"Funnily enough, Amy wouldn't drag me across London to insult dangerous men."

"She's unambitious," says Sherlock and John climbs in next to him and wraps his body close. "I suppose she won't be hearing about this."

"Right," says John and closes his eyes tight. "Just try to get some sleep and tomorrow we'll pretend this didn't happen."

"Ah," says Sherlock and for a moment there's silence. "Thank you, John."

"What for?"

"Oh, I'm sure there's something this evening," says Sherlock and turns his head so his mouth is close to John's cheek. "You're very warm."

"Shut up," says John and grins. "Go to sleep."

"I shall try," says Sherlock. "I like that you're warm."

John scrunches his eyes tight shut and clings tighter to Sherlock's skin. Not that there's anything inappropriate in any of this. He's just warming up his flatmate so they'll both be awake and in good condition by morning. John's not willing for Sherlock to catch a cold or worse, because it would definitely be John who had to take care of him. So this is better.

Naked and better.

It certainly won't be awkward in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following their evening of knotty problems, John attempts his date with Amy.
> 
> Naturally, Sherlock sends the odd text to remind him of his priorities.
> 
> And they share a bed. Again.

He isn't exactly sure why, but John Watson is certain that he isn't going to get laid and that it is all Sherlock's fault.

He's been in the restaurant for precisely forty-five minutes, long enough to get through a few glasses of wine, a starter he hasn't liked and the promise of a main course he is quickly losing the appetite for. He is also aware that the woman across the table from him is about to get dumped. He'll wait for the end of the date, naturally, before he starts to drop some hint of how he doesn't think this is working out, but Amy will end up the ex-girlfriend of John Watson rather than the current one.

It's definitely Sherlock's fault even if he can't put a finger on exactly why that should be. He wants very much to explore the why right now, but he has rump steak to get through and a soon to be ex-girlfriend to listen to. Before last night he didn't notice how often she flirted and alluded to her knickers, just that she was fun to be around. Before last night John didn't care how often she made noises when she ate her food because he was set on getting her clothes off and into her bed. Now every noise seems to grate and John is doing his best not to wince when she makes suggestive comments he no longer believes.

Amy's squeaky moans aren't a patch on Sherlock's snoring.

John sits up a little straighter at the table as the thought cheerily settles itself in his brain. He woke up this morning, near swaddled beneath the duvet, tangled in the long limbs of his flatmate. Sherlock wrapped himself round John in the middle of the night and John was crushed beneath him. Sherlock's thigh raised high against John's belly, the push of penis and balls at his side and the steady thump of Sherlock's heart against his chest. He was conscious of all of this before he woke and he could feel the tickly sensation of Sherlock's curls against his nose. John's immediate reaction worried him, because he had smiled, stroked Sherlock's hair and snuggled down long before he realised the sun had risen.

There hadn't been anything horrifically embarrassing for John to deny when he finally opened his eyes. He was hard, but no more so than any other morning. He was warm, which did more to make him feel better about being naked in his bed with his best friend and John held Sherlock tight as his body woke up properly. Sherlock was surprisingly pleasant to sleep with and when John checked the clock, it was later than he was used to waking. He felt rested and although his wrists were sore from the ropes the night before, he felt good, quietly affectionate and more than a little aroused. It might just have been because Sherlock was mostly quiet, except for a companionable snore. John could easily have written it off that way, got out of bed and carried on with his usual daily business, but companionable snores do not make a hard dick harder.

John took a deep breath before he unpeeled himself from Sherlock's embrace and met the day fully. He washed up, dressed and headed down to make a hearty breakfast for them both and when Sherlock finally emerged, they had a pleasant repast. They referred only to the case that left them both close to drowning and Sherlock revealed exactly what he'd already sent to Lestrade. John had complained about having to spend part of his day making a statement but neither one of them mentioned the sleeping, naked hours that passed in John's bedroom the night before.

John had left for his date in good spirits, sure that he could get back to where he was the night before. Amy had responded well to persuasion and though she told him that all her friends said she should dump him immediately, Amy was willing to give him yet another chance. Despite feeling pleased that his life was back on track, as soon as John met her at the restaurant and kissed her cheek, he knew tonight wasn't going to end with her knickers, black, white or otherwise, on the end of his bed.

She was still talking, explaining how her mates had said John was unreliable and that in spite of that, she was brave and willing to take a risk. "I mean," she says as she swirls her straw in her glass. "I just told them you have to follow your heart."

"Yeah," says John and smiles at her over the top of his glass. "Was this before or after you'd finished slagging me off?"

"Well, John, you did let me down."

"I know."

"And to go play assistant to that _weirdo_ ," she says and takes a drink. "I thought you were a doctor."

"I am a doctor."

"Then you don't need to be traipsing off after Sherlock," she says decisively and John sits up a little straighter at the table. "You have to admit it is a bit odd, you living with him and working with him. I mean you said he doesn't go to the pub."

"He's been to the pub," says John and feels his phone vibrate. "I don't think it's odd."

"Well he's not a real detective," she says. "All he does is bother the police."

"He doesn't..." John pauses and looks over at Amy. She's not even watching him, she's toying with her glass and apparently has lost the filter between brain and mouth. Either that or she's considered Sherlock free game, the way most people seem to. Sherlock might well be one of the rudest men alive, but he has feelings, even if he doesn't want to indulge them. People make the mistake of thinking Sherlock doesn't, as he doesn't seem to consider theirs, but John knows that Sherlock bleeds, just the same as anyone else. "He's caught killers," he says and watches Amy. "They come to him."

"Probably curiosity."

"He does what they can't," says John. "That's why he matters."

She sniffs and twirls her straw. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't matter to anyone but himself," she says. "He doesn't care that he made you cancel our date last night. He doesn't care about your happiness, John."

"Can we stop talking about Sherlock," says John and draws his phone out. He grins at the text.

_'If the dog walker is boring you, I need an assistant in this experiment - SH'_

He looks back at Amy as she makes a little squeal again at the bubbles in her drink and leans forward to look at him. Her cleavage is pretty and almost on show and yet he hasn't been so uninterested in a long time.

_'Bog off. She's scintillating company - JW'_

"So what do you want to do after this?"

Amy giggles at him and leans forward, her toe brushing his calf beneath the table. He licks over his bottom lip as she reaches out and draws her fingers over the back of his hand. "What do you think I want to do?"

_'Really? If she starts fondling you at the table she'll definitely have sex with you.'_

John smiles at her and picks up his drink.

_'Really?'_

She draws her hand back as the main course arrives and digs in.

_'Of course not. She lives with her parents and they're in tonight. She'll make it her excuse later.'_

John clears his throat as Amy takes a mouthful and rounds her mouth in a moan at the taste. He believes she likes the dinner. He doesn't believe she likes him.

"Amy," he says and she looks over at him. "I'm really sorry."

She stares at him. "You're leaving me," she says and lowers her voice. " You're leaving me to go off with _him_ and I was going to _sleep_ with you."

"You really weren't," says John and stands up, flipping notes from his wallet to the table. He pauses as he sees her face redden, ready to impart yet another scathing comment not just on Sherlock but on John's addiction to his company. "It's been terrific but I think we should start seeing other people."

"You just mean him!"

"I think I mean anyone."

"He's weird and so are you!" she snaps. "You're obsessed with him!"

John shrugs at her before he turns on his heel and walks out the restaurant. He calls a cab and arrives at 221b shortly after. He bids good evening to Mrs Hudson and pushes open the door to find that their flat is filled with some kind of foul smelling smoke. He presses his handkerchief over his mouth and squints in the dim light. "Sherlock, where the fuck are you?"

"Kitchen," says Sherlock and John would roll his eyes at how choked he sounds but heads for the windows and throws them open. It's cold, but the smoke starts to dissipate and John makes his way through to the table, hand outstretched as he gropes for Sherlock. His palm lands on Sherlock's shoulder and he sniffs to find the origins of the smell.

"What have you burnt?" he asks and looks round briefly before he lifts Sherlock's chin. "Have you been breathing this in?"

"Trying not to," says Sherlock. "Can you untie me?"

John stares and reaches for Sherlock's wrist. It's wrapped in a thick rope reminiscent of the night before and John frowns. He checks the other and looks back at Sherlock. "Why've you done this?"

"I _did_ ask you to come home to assist me," says Sherlock. "The smoke is unfortunate."

"Unfortunate?" asks John and glances round. "Did you set the kettle on fire?"

"I may have melted the bottom," says Sherlock. "It overheated and I may have slightly miscalculated how long it would take me to release myself."

John sighs, moves the kettle and turns the stove off. "You could have just used the electric one. You've knackered this one and made the flat stink. And why the hell have you tied yourself up? Didn't you get enough of that last night?"

"I needed to work out a better way of releasing myself," says Sherlock. "We took far too long last night and you were at risk."

"I wasn't the one close to hypothermia," says John and pulls at the rope. "Is this wet?"

"I needed to simulate the same conditions," says Sherlock. "I needed you to pull against, but I can only conclude that without any method of cutting, I doubt we would have freed ourselves before the tide came in."

"And the kettle?"

"I wanted a cup of tea."

"Marvelous," says John. "Well, why don't we go out for a bit while the flat clears up and I'll get some vitamin E for your wrists." He unfastens the rope and hands over his handkerchief when Sherlock coughs. "Why didn't you use the electric kettle?"

"This one was closer," says Sherlock and gets to his feet unsteadily. "The flat's going to be freezing when we return."

"Yeah, well you're the one who burns plastic," says John. "Best we avoid that."

"It was incidental," say Sherlock. "Wet rope is not easy to escape from."

"No, I know. We knew that last night," says John and gets an arm round Sherlock's waist as he looks round for the man's coat. "Why don't you focus more on making sure we don't get tied up again instead of working out how to get out of it?"

"We just have to ensure we've always got a hidden blade."

"You are not Zorro," says John and pulls Sherlock's arms into his coat. He fastens it up and wraps Sherlock's scarf round his neck. "Come on, brisk walk round the park and we can come back home and it won't stink like this."

"Just freezing." says Sherlock. "If you'd made your excuses earlier, it wouldn't have been a problem."

"If you hadn't been a berk, I wouldn't have had to come home."

"Ah, so my text did pull you away from your date."

"Actually," says John as he walks down the stairs and pauses as Sherlock coughs again. "My date pulled me away from my date."

"Did she start licking her spoon?"

"No," says John. "She was playing footsie and moaning."

"Sounds a perfect date."

"Yeah, well they all end the same way," says John and pulls his coat in tighter. "You text me and I leave."

"Well, you have your priorities in order," says Sherlock and smiles briefly as they walk out the front door. "John, I do apologise if I caused your date to collapse."

John snorts. "Sherlock, don't start doing that now."

"Apologising?"

"Yeah, exactly," says John and grins. "It's weird."

"Oh," says Sherlock and tucks his hands under his armpits as John fastens his jacket. "You ended it early."

"That's sort of the problem of living with you," says John. "Sometimes you say stuff and I can't quite get it out of my head."

"Those are facts," says Sherlock. "They shouldn't leave your head."

"Yeah, but my head's stuffed with that other crap as well," says John. "You know how it is. Actually, you might not know how it is, but sometimes that stuff sticks and I couldn't help looking at her and thinking, she isn't going to sleep with me."

"Well she wasn't."

"But she was moaning," says John. "It felt odd."

"As I said," says Sherlock. "She never intended to sleep with you."

"You make it sound as though I repel women."

"We both know that's not true," says Sherlock as they walk toward the park. "You pick up women without noticing, sometimes."

"I can't help being devilishly attractive," grins John and when Sherlock winces at the push of material against his skin, John fishes the packet of Vitamin E out of his pocket. "Come on, give me those wrists."

"It's cold," says Sherlock and John rolls his eyes as he splits a capsule and rubs the contents over the grazed area. Sherlock obligingly stretches out his other arm and John plays caretaker long enough to salve Sherlock's skin. "The kettle had only just melted."

"Thank God for that," says John. "What was the plan? Escape from the bonds and celebrate with a cuppa?"

"Something like that," says Sherlock. "I did ask you to come home."

"So when did you tie yourself up? After you'd texted me?"

"Obviously," says Sherlock. "You know, the flat will be clear of smoke."

"It's going to stink of burned plastic," says John. "We should get an oil burner or something. Febreeze the whole place. God knows how we're going to sleep tonight."

"It's only downstairs," says Sherlock. "Your room will be fine."

John doesn't quite misstep but it's close. Sherlock steps beyond the park entrance and turns to look at him. "My room?" asks John. "You're planning to sleep in my room again?"

"Don't be impractical, John. As you said, the smell will be difficult to sleep in and my room is close enough to the kitchen to render it uninhabitable. Your room is the most sensible option."

"Okay," says John. "But two nights on the run. It's not going to become a habit."

"You didn't object last night."

"I was worried about you!"

"I've got a slight cough," says Sherlock and demonstrates. "From the smoke. You could monitor me."

"You're not my patient," says John firmly. "I'm not spending the night checking if you're coughing."

"Fine, then we'll sleep and you can pick up something to eliminate the smell tomorrow and all will be restored."

John frowns and Sherlock coughs pointedly. "Stop that. We both know you're fine."

"I'm not fine. I've been exposed."

"Yes and _you_ exposed yourself," says John and glances round as Sherlock smirks. "Fine. You can share my room."

"Excellent," says Sherlock. "You are an entirely companionable bed partner. Very accommodating."

"You know, my luck with women isn't going to improve if you keep saying things like that."

"Why not? It's true," says Sherlock. "I slept very well."

"So?"

"I don't always," says Sherlock and John raises his eyebrows. "I used to have a teddy bear, but it was removed from my possession."

"Mycroft?"

"He has a fine line on punishment," says Sherlock and smiles at John. "You were a more than adequate replacement."

"Great," says John and kicks at a pebble on the path. "I ended things with Amy."

"A little early."

"I don't work to your timescale," says John and sighs. "She was fine, you know? Just...she was fine. A nice girl. Pretty. Flirty."

"Fine," says Sherlock. "But you aren't seeing her again."

John shrugs. "She didn't like you."

"That's never stopped you before."

"It has," says John and Sherlock huffs. "You really think I'd consider someone who couldn't stand you."

"The best of them merely tolerate me."

"That's pretty good, considering," grins John. "Anyway, it didn't work out."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not," says John. "It's fine. Didn't work out. It happens."

"All the same," says Sherlock. "I do think this indicates your choice of prospective partner should be reviewed."

John shakes his head. "No experiments on my love life, Sherlock."

"I didn't propose an experiment," says Sherlock. "I suggested a review. You should analyse who you've dated and what they have in common to form a profile of what you should be looking for."

"You mean, avoid all blondes and redheads because they always end it and avoid brunettes because I always end it." grins John. "Maybe I should be looking for someone bald."

"Don't be absurd," says Sherlock. "Your previous girlfriends have all had a _nice_ quality," he says. "Always safe. Never interesting."

"I don't need an interesting girlfriend," says John. "I've got you for that."

"Ah," says Sherlock. "So what you're suggesting is that you need a woman for sex and me for everything else."

The silence is rather crisp in the night air and John takes a few seconds to work out how to respond. "You know," he says. "I'm really glad no-one else is here to hear that."

"For goodness sake, John, it's hardly as though it's the first time they would have inferred you and I do more than share a flat."

"Yeah, but we're heading home to share a bed," says John. "I'm really not gay, you know."

"I didn't say you were."

"I know," says John. "I'm not. But..."

He sighs and pushes his hands firmly into his pockets as they walk beneath the trees. Sherlock keeps pace, slowing his long limbed stride to stay at John's side. The trees are bowed inward on their path and John feels more at home with Sherlock than he does anywhere else. Home is adventure and uncertainty and John narrows the distance between them.

"The flat should be cleared out now," he says and Sherlock nods and adjusts their route. John clears his throat. "God knows why I'm telling you this. But," he pauses, sighs and then shrugs again. "I did once have a thing with a bloke."

"A thing?"

"One night thing," says John. "I was drunk."

"So many of your stores begin that way," says Sherlock. "Was this in your university days?"

"No," says John. "Just before I went back from leave," he says quietly. "I had ten days leave, so me and a mate decided to head to Vicenza. It was carnival time, everyone was drinking, girls were flashing all their bits and we got hammered." He clears his throat. "And the last night we were celebrating and he turned and looked at me. He was grinning. Happiest I ever saw him and I just..."

Sherlock rubs his tongue over the inside of his cheek as John talks. "You wanted him."

"It just happened," says John. "No. I _made_ it happen. It was pretty clumsy. I mean I knew what to do but I wasn't exactly co-ordinated. The drink didn't help. But it was a good night and the next day we just got on with stuff."

"You acted as though it hadn't happened."

"It didn't seem to change anything," says John. "We were just Mark and John, like we'd always been. We headed back to base, shipped out and that was that."

Sherlock's close enough that his coat brushes against John's own. "You never discussed it."

"No," says John. "Never took leave together again either. He finished his tour, went home, got married." He shrugs. "We don't keep in touch."

"You wish you did?"

"Not really," says John. "It was just one night. And it wasn't a great revelation or anything and it never happened again so I feel pretty safe saying I'm not gay."

"Safe?" asks Sherlock. "Would it bother you if you were?"

"Bit of overkill with Harry playing for the home team," says John. "I _do_ like women."

"Because they're what exactly?" asks Sherlock. "Not safe, surely?"

"I just do. I like them," says John. "Never felt the same way about a bloke."

"Except for your army colleague," says Sherlock. "Interesting."

"Just because you do something once, doesn't mean you're always going to do it," says John. He focuses on the darkness in front of him. "What about you?"

"I think that's an apt account of my own experiences," says Sherlock.

"You slept with a bloke from the army?"

"Apart from last night, no," says Sherlock. "There were... fumbling experiments. Nothing entirely satisfactory."

"When?"

"An age ago," says Sherlock. "The entire business seemed riddled with unnecessary complexity, hurt feelings and bitterness. Nothing of enough value to deem it worthy of further investigation."

"Right," says John. "So you never wanted to try it just to see what all the fuss is about."

"I'm quite capable of achieving that particular sensation alone."

John laughs. "Yeah, but in company it's something else."

"Disappointing?" asks Sherlock. "Are you really suggesting someone else can stimulate orgasm more efficiently than you can yourself?"

John glances round at the empty street and grins back at Sherlock. "Okay, I'm saying that having someone want to do that for you is pretty damn good. Efficiency isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"Sentiment," murmurs Sherlock. "It _always_ comes back round to sentiment."

"Like caring that you almost got your flatmate killed?" asks John and catches Sherlock almost blushing.  "We're friends, Sherlock. Sentiment is built in."

"Oh fine," says Sherlock. "It doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Fine. You can resent the hell out of being my friend." John pulls his keys out as the approach the front door. "You still smell smoky. You can have a shower before coming to bed."

"We're only going to sleep."

"The whole point of you sleeping in my bed is to escape the smell," says John as he opens up and pulls his jacket off. "You're not bringing it with you."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he does walk through to the bathroom in 221b and John checks the remainder of the flat for any further damage. He closes the windows and deems it livable, though the stove will need to be cleaned thoroughly before they use it again. He checks Sherlock's bedroom and though it's clear of smoke, there is a very vague smell of burnt plastic. It's mild, almost unnoticeable and John closes the door firmly and heads upstairs to bed.

He strips down and puts his clothes away before he looks back at the mattress. Last night they slept naked. Last night they were worried, (or at least John was worried) about conserving body heat. Tonight they're at little risk and John could force Sherlock to sleep downstairs. It wouldn't do him any real harm and might teach him a thing or two about where to carry out experiments. But John isn't going to do that and he reaches into the wardrobe and pulls out pajama bottoms he hasn't worn in an age. He slides them on and sits on the edge of the bed before Sherlock walks upstairs, towel wrapped and tousled from the shower. "Dry your hair off," says John. "I'm going to brush my teeth. Don't get my pillow wet."

He walks past and concentrates on each little activity, focusing on that alone to avoid thinking about sharing his bed again. He could have ignored Amy's foibles and deleted Sherlock's comments. He could have, but it didn't interest him and now he's going to bed with a different person, no doubt one who will cling to him during the night and John pushes those thoughts down deep. He heads back upstairs, takes a deep breath before he opens his bedroom door and half hopes Sherlock will answer all his questions in a single gesture.

Whatever he hoped, Sherlock is sprawled out beneath the sheets, curls damp and on John's spare pillow. John sighs, turns off the light and climbs into bed on the opposite side. He settles below the sheets, testing out the space he has before he closes his eyes. Sherlock is alarmingly close and, as a brush of hand to hip reveals, very naked. John frowns and turns his head toward his flatmate. "Sherlock," he says quietly and clears his throat. "Where are your pants?"

"I sleep naked," says Sherlock and John sighs.

"Yes, alone. But you're sharing a bed with me."

"Didn't bother you last night."

"Different circumstances," says John. "Put something on."

"No," says Sherlock. "Too tired. Anyway, it doesn't really bother you."

John sighs again and closes his eyes tight. His hand rests below the duvet, somewhere close to Sherlock's belly. Close enough to other areas and he can sense that crazy part of him that just wants to reach out and grip. He could make Sherlock get up, he isn't a slave to the man's demands, but he quite likes the quiet between them as well, an easiness he hasn't felt with any of his bed partners in a very long time. He turns on the mattress, grateful to the moonlight that drifts between the curtains and highlights Sherlock's profile.

The light paints Sherlock blue and John resists the urge to reach out and push curls from his face. John has thought many things about Sherlock over the months and now year they've known one another. He knows people think that he's freakish, sometimes in body and often in personality but they don't know him for real. They don't know what a dick he is on a daily basis, or ever see the vulnerability he fights hard to keep hidden. John knows him, most of him and he gives in to the urge to touch. He pushes at errant curls and moves them from Sherlock's face, the touch just light enough to be a caress and John doesn't care.

Sherlock opens one eye to look at him and sighs lazily. He shifts slightly on the mattress and John feels Sherlock's hand slide over his side. For all people assume that they're lovers, John doubts they ever imagine this closeness and he quietly, privately cherishes it. Sherlock's comfort was real, indulgent and hidden from the world and no-one needs to know what happens when the doors are closed. John yawns, closes his eyes and resolves to sleep and enjoy the added closeness of a friend he would literally risk his own life for.

His sleep is nightmare free but he wakes just after three in the morning. Sherlock is awake, watching him and as John lifts a hand to scrub back through his hair, Sherlock smiles. Something close and kept only between the two of them and for the second time in his life, John really wants. He doesn't hesitate when he leans forward, closing the scant space between them for a kiss he's been considering in cloaked terms. His lips press against Sherlock's, soft and warm from sleepiness and he can feel the immediate and welcome reaction. Just a kiss under a low flood of moonlight, a hint of tongue when his bottom lip is licked, nipped and John slides his hand to stroke the sharp planes of Sherlock's cheek and jaw.

He kisses Sherlock, lingering against the man's mouth when he catches his breath before John can kiss him again. Slow and lazy and existing only in the passes of the night. John sucks on Sherlock's bottom lip when its offered up and he moves in closer still. His body is pressed, full length, against Sherlock's own and he can feel everything he hasn't thought about in such clear terms. It's almost on offer, firm muscle and languid limbs pressed to John's own and the reassuring thudding of Sherlock's heart against John's chest. He can feel his own breathing pick up and his cock is hard and heavy, his balls drawn tight and he can't help that he's already slick with his own excitement. It's wet against Sherlock's belly and while that is wonderfully hot, better still is that John is not alone in his arousal.

Sherlock is stiff, a thick and warm length pushed against John's thigh and John rocks toward him, hips thrusted forward as he deepens the kiss. His tongue strokes along Sherlock's own before he draws back, grinning against the man's mouth. He feels oddly clumsy and exhilarated at the same time and as Sherlock kisses him back, John risks more of himself. His fingers stray beneath the bedding, sliding between them both so he can touch skin he's barely done more than observed himself. When Sherlock moans and slides willingly to his back, John is more than eager to explore the white expanse of his skin.

He bends to press his lips to the pressure point in the hollow of Sherlock's neck, his tongue etching a path down before he can turn his attention to the pebbled nipple beneath his palm. John licks, his teeth catching on the edge that draws an extraordinary groan from Sherlock before John opens his mouth wide and sucks. The erection that's been rubbing insistently against John's thigh gives a heavy throb and John grins and sucks harder. He kisses a path from nipple to nipple to elicit the same noise from sucking again and Sherlock is slick and warm and willing in the night.

John's hand slides down, captures the heavy length and squeezes slowly. Sherlock groans and John leans closer, presses his mouth to Sherlock's ear. "Different," he says and feels the panting breath against his neck. "When someone wants to do it for you."

"Yes," says Sherlock and swallows hard. "I would like that."

John pushes at the duvet, baring them both to the moonlight and he leans up on his elbow as he keeps a firm grip of Sherlock's cock. He leans in to drop teasing kisses against Sherlock's mouth, sucking on the offered tongue as his fingers slide over and along the length of Sherlock's cock. His fingertips stroke over the smooth and shiny head before he draws skin, velvet over steel, down again and squeezes. John's hand is slightly calloused from holding other weapons, but he's careful and fastidious as he brings Sherlock to the brink. He draws back from Sherlock's kiss, from the needy hands as he makes the man come. He feels every drop, slick and wet and warm on his skin and on Sherlock's belly, but John watches Sherlock's eyes. He watches as Sherlock loses control, almost willingly and John wishes he could bottle it just to hold something this rare.

Sherlock opens his mouth wide, gasping for breath in the aftermath and John leans down, presses a kiss to the edge of his lips and smiles. "I want to do that for you," he says quietly and Sherlock's eyes move, focused on John as always.

"Yes," he says and kisses John when he offers it. He watches but doesn't touch as John takes himself in hand. His eyes are focussed and John feels he is performing, showing off, demonstrating what he likes as he fists his cock and brings himself off in style. Sherlock doesn't come close to touching but he does kiss, does press lips to John's neck and only covers John's hand with his palm when John is lying back on the mattress, spent and groaning.

"I would like to," says Sherlock and John grins as he turns his head.

"Do what?"

"That. I would like to do that for you."

John sighs and takes a kiss. "I'd like that too," he says. "Maybe in the morning?"

"Yes," says Sherlock. "When I can see you properly."

John chuckles. "Yeah, I can see how you want _all_ the evidence."

"I want to observe everything," says Sherlock and they kiss again, promises unspoken and longed for that seem possible in the early morning hours. John cleans them both up, his pajama bottoms put to good use as they are finally discarded and they curl together, limbs locked and tangled as they sleep. Faces turned toward each other, mouths close and they sleep like the dead.

They're not prepared for the explosion, barely an hour later. The house across the street is in pieces and the windows in 221b and some of the plasterwork ruined. When they scramble, sheets and bedding wrapped round as the emergency services arrive, neither one are expecting the places they'd begun exploring with each other to be so quickly exposed to so many people. John isn't quite sure how he's going to deal with it and he hitches the sheet higher, his hair covered in dust and his focus on the man with his back to him.

Sherlock Holmes is sleeping with John Watson and things have only grown more dangerous.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There has been another explosion outside 221b and Sherlock and John have a morning of broken windows and plaster dust.
> 
> John would prefer morning sex. Perhaps he will get lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, such a delay! Sorry for that, work interfered in the smut. Hope this makes up for having to wait!
> 
> Thank you so much for all your very kind comments.

John Watson is a lot more naked than he's really comfortable with.

His hands clutch at the sheet wrapped round his waist as people busy themselves in the street shout things through the blown out windows. The explosion seemed to rock the entire street, again, and there are more people milling around than is reasonable in the early morning light. The sun is barely visible over the top of the buildings, but it's bright enough to illuminate anyone in the middle of Baker Street. John's hair is littered with plaster dust and his feet are bare and cold on the floor. He nods to the firemen who make their way into their flat. There's a brief check that he and Sherlock are okay before they head back to those more in need.

Sherlock looks almost Greek in the sheet he's wrapped round himself. He is a statue, littered with the remnants of the plaster round the window, his hair in tighter curls and his fingers cut where he brushed glass away from the bed. This man is John's lover as of early this morning and John's skin is still sticky with Sherlock's sweat and semen. Not the first man John has slept with, but the first in his bed and John breathes out slowly as he considers how this morning after might go. In his sleepy, dreamy state as he lay back, spent and happy, John thought he would wake in the morning and show Sherlock how to make him come.

The reality is much grittier and John feels the sheet drop slightly, revealing far too much of his left buttock and catching under his foot. He's at risk of stripping himself when he already feels vulnerable and he hasn't got Sherlock's knack of making this look as though it's intended. Mrs Hudson stands at the top of the stairs, wrapped in her dressing gown, her hair wrapped in not enough curlers and her hand clutched to her face. She stares round at the damage and Sherlock strides over and wraps a bare arm round her shoulder. "We'll get this all fixed up," he says and John blinks at the concern.

"Why do they do it?" she asks. "After all that last year I thought we'd be done with this. And my carpets. They've ruined my carpets _again_. You can't get it all the way out. It's plaster, it goes everywhere. I just don't know what I'm going to do. I'll have to get the insurers in again."

"Don't worry about it," says John and steps forward, hand on her waist from the other side. He glances up at Sherlock. "We'll take care of everything."

"And my good china," she says. "The teapot's cracked and one of the cups is completely smashed. You can't get them anymore. It was my mother's and she didn't have to deal with this, even when they dropped bombs."

"I'll glue it," says John. Sherlock's fingers brush against his where they've encircled Mrs Hudson. John feels the touch somewhere beneath the sheet and suspects he may be blushing. "It's not so terrible. We're all okay and it doesn't look like anyone's died."

"It's all the mess," she says and looks up at him finally. "Is this about Sherlock again?" she asks and looks between them. "Is this him?"

"No," says Sherlock and seems entirely focussed on the windows that aren't there. "He won't repeat himself."

John squeezes Mrs Hudson before she can ask again and she leans against his shoulder. "And the pair of you," she says. "Knocked out of your beds." She sighs and closes her eyes as John strokes his thumb over her waist. "Bed."

"Ah," says John and kisses the top of her head. "Well, it's early but I think we could all do with a nice cup of tea. Sherlock?"

"Hmm," says Sherlock and glances back but John's very much aware that his focus is elsewhere. He's busy solving the problem, working out why the windows had to be blown at all. Who blew up the house across the way and why they are currently dealing with all these people in Sherlock's territory? He's clearly not thinking about John, or about the way John is aroused by the way Sherlock looks in a sheet, or anything they did before the world turned on its head. Again. John still thinks he can smell the plastic kettle Sherlock burned earlier. He realises that he can also smell himself as well and he draws back slightly from Mrs Hudson.

"I'll get the tea," says John and Sherlock waves a hand vaguely in his direction. Mrs Hudson follows John to the kitchen and draws out the cups that have thankfully stayed in tact. She nudges John as he flips the switch on the kettle.

"I didn't know, love," she says and John looks back at her. "You and him. I didn't know. Sorry if I've put my foot in it."

"You're fine," he says and smiles at her when she looks both nervous and eager for gossip. "Nothing much to tell."

"Well, it's none of my business," she says and offers up one of her proud smiles. He recognises it and he knows it's applied to Sherlock when he's done something clever and offered to John when he's done something nice for Sherlock. John knows who the favourite is in this relationship and doesn't resent it. Sherlock doesn't put himself at the top of any given chain anyway, he puts the problem first, solving it second and everything else falls somewhere after that. Except there are brief moments when John truly believes that he features somewhere on Sherlock's list, named and identified and of import.

John fills three cups and is entirely relieved Sherlock hasn't been storing anything terrible in the fridge. He sets them on the table and glances down at himself as plaster dust drops from his hair to the table itself. "You know, I think I'll just put some clothes on," he says and Mrs Hudson twitters and says that it shouldn't be on her account. But John is conscious of his own vulnerability and how he didn't get the chance to do anything more than leap out of bed in the middle of the night.

The morning was supposed to begin with opportunity to expand on what he wanted to do with Sherlock, where John actually had the advantage, but the explosion ripped that away and now that he's assured everyone is okay, John wants to sulk. Nothing major, nothing of Sherlock-like proportions, but a man close to being well laid should have the opportunity to lament missed chances. He sighs as he walks to his bedroom, trips over the ridge at the edge of the door and opens his wardrobe. His clothes tumble out to the floor in a puff of plaster dust and John isn't surprised at all that the wall behind it has blown through the boards at the back and shredded both wardrobe and clothes within. He sighs, leans on the door and then yells down the stairs.

"Sherlock, have you got any of my clothes in your room?"

"He's gone out, dear."

John closes his eyes before he turns on his heel and heads down with the sheet wrapped round a little tighter. Mrs Hudson pats him on the shoulder and leaves, abandoning John to the flat he's come to think of as home. He checks the time and his shoulders sag briefly. He should be in bed. He should be asleep, still dreaming of what he might do when he wakes, the next great adventure for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. He straightens up as he realises that whether things are postponed or permanently off the menu, he has things to do here.

John Watson squares his shoulders as he turns to the task in hand. He wraps the sheet more comfortably round his hips as he prepares himself. He's cleared out war zones before and this is barely a memory of that. The glass on the floor is the worst of the immediate problem and despite the chill in the air, John is sweating by the time it's all cleaned up and there are bin bags lined with cardboard and filled with glass and plaster. The clothes from upstairs are bagged for laundry and his wardrobe is roughly patched with the remaining wood. The windows are harder to take care of and despite the sweat, John shivers as he starts boarding them up. He doesn't like the lack of light and he knows they'll be fixed within the next few days but it troubles him all the same.

He checks Sherlock's bedroom and rolls his eyes as he sees that the windows are barely cracked. There's a single line in the centre of one plane of glass but they're otherwise untouched. John huffs, checks the room for any other damage and dumps the few items in his possession on the desk. He's spent little of his time at Baker Street inside this room and takes the opportunity to look round carefully. It is not his place, not an area for the ex-soldier and yet John's room is a wreck following the blast and Sherlock's is not. The logic is inescapable and he plans to get as much of his remaining laundry done as he can manage so that at least he has a pair of pants to wear when he sleeps.

"It really was a gas leak."

He turns to find Sherlock still draped with a sheet and looking slightly less godlike. His feet are dirty and his hair has far too much plaster and glass in it for John's liking. The graze across the back of his hand is likewise dirty and his jaw is dark where dust has caught and clung to his damp cheek. His fingers have smeared bloody stains on the sheet and show dried, dark blood at the edges of his fingernails. He looks younger too, excitement clear in his expression and oblivious to whatever is still bothering John. "The mains were damaged last time and the problem left unresolved until this morning. It could have gone on for years if Mrs Hubbard had ignored her desire for a steaming hot bath."

John frowns. "Was she hurt?"

"Not _fatally_ ," says Sherlock. "Barely more than a broken wrist, but _we_ will have to suffer the inconvenience of workmen in the street as they fix the original problem." He sighs. "It's not even conspiracy."

"Right," says John and stares at Sherlock. "Because that's what we should have been hoping for."

"It would have been interesting," says Sherlock and frowns as he looks at John. "You're a state."

"You look worse."

"I've been outside," says Sherlock. "I had to explain what happened and what they should have done and what they have to do now."

"I bet they appreciated that," says John. "And anyway. I fixed everything in here."

"Yes, I noticed. The boards aren't straight, John."

"Well, if I'd have had help, it might have been," says John and shakes his head, sending a ridiculous amount of dust across the floor. "I'm going to have to stay here tonight. The window in my room is bust and my wardrobe's broken and anyway, you can let me. I've let you."

"Fine."

"And it's because I need somewhere to stay," he says and breathes out hard. "That's all."

"Is it?"

"Of course," says John. "The windows have gone, Sherlock. I can't stay in my room."

"Naturally," says Sherlock and tilts his head at John. "Just so I'm clear, which of us are you trying to convince?"

John pauses, ready to launch into another explanation of why he needs a bed for the night. He isn't ready to deny anything happened, but if Sherlock wants to carry on as normal, then he's ready for that too. He is entirely ready for anything that happens, because John likes his life here and as much as he likes what they did before dawn, it's the bond between them that matters.

"No one."

"Because you're jumpy," says Sherlock and lifts a hand to his hair. He pulls away a considerable handful of unpleasantness and looks back at John. "I take it the bathroom's untouched."

"Think so," says John. "Might have a crack or two in the panels, but it's mostly okay."

"So, why don't we put aside this fascinating discussion for a moment, get cleaned up and then we can get back to it if it still concerns you."

"Don't," says John. "Don't act like this is all fine."

"Well, it is," says Sherlock. "Or it will be. Shower, John?"

John lifts a hand and points at him. "No," he says firmly. "You don't just get to do this."

"Do what exactly?" asks Sherlock. "Shower?"

"Say everything's fine."

"But everything clearly _is_ fine."

"No, it's not," says John, a little louder than he intended. He clears his throat and looks back at Sherlock. "I'm not saying it has to continue but we didn't just sleep together last night."

"Yes, I'm aware of that."

"And I want to make sure we're both okay with that."

Sherlock frowns. "John, I'm perfectly happy having carnal knowledge of you. Are you unhappy having done so?"

"No," says John shortly. "I'm fine with it."

"Then please tell me what the issue is because you appear to be in some sort of loop."

John sighs and steps forward, feeling dusty, grubby and more than a little tired. He reaches for Sherlock's hand and turns it over to look at the graze. It doesn't need stitches but there may still be fragments of glass in there. He could just walk out of here and sort out that little injury in an entirely clinical manner, but instead he leans forward and presses his lips to Sherlock's skin. Kisses make everything better.

"I'm sorry," he says and looks up at Sherlock. "I hoped waking up would be a little bit different."

"There was an explosion."

"Yes, I know that," says John and risks a smile. "Not the kind I was hoping for. Why don't you have a shower, I'll have one afterward and then we can have tea and toast and decide what to do with the rest of the day?"

"Fine," says Sherlock and draws his hand away from John. "You could come with me?"

"Oh, I don't think I have the strength." John grins and opens the bathroom door. "Seriously. Get cleaned up."

Sherlock strips the sheet off with a flourish and deposits it, dust, muck and all on the wooden floor. He doesn't quite flounce as he heads into the bathroom but it's a close thing. John strips down and does his best to gather up the mess on the floor. He suspects they'll be seeing it for weeks. He dumps it with the rest of the laundry and suspects he'll have to spend hours sorting it out in the launderette. He turns as the bathroom door reopens and a clean, pink and shiny Sherlock steps out, towel rubbed casually over curls that are already drying. "It's all yours," he says and glances down at John's growing erection. "Unless you'd like me to scrub your back."

"Go make the tea," says John and steps into the bathroom. He washes quickly, scrubbing the explosion away from his skin. He feels fairly pink and clean himself and towels himself dry in the bathroom. John walks to the kitchen naked, amused to find Sherlock has abandoned his own dressing gown, though not his posture and is sitting at the table with tea and passable toast ready for them both. The tea from earlier has been disposed of and everything looks neat and tidy, except for the windows. "I don't think you've ever done that."

"I've made tea before. And toast. I'm far from incompetent."

"No, I mean you did what I asked," says John and sits opposite. The tea is very good and the toast has just enough jam on it. "So."

"Yes?"

John takes another bite of his toast and gestures toward Sherlock. "Things have changed. A bit."

"Well, you've started to display a certain amount of uncertainty," says Sherlock. "Are we moving on to bitterness and confusion?"

"I'm not bitter," says John. "Maybe a bit confused."

"At what?"

"At what we did," says John and shakes his head. "No, I mean I know what we did. I liked it. I just didn't know if it was what you wanted or if it was just..."

"Yes?"

"Ships that pass in the night."

"Ah," says Sherlock. "A little hard to pass when we live together."

"I don't mean literally."

"So I gather," says Sherlock and sets his cup down. He leans forward. "John, I have explained that any earlier experiments were unsatisfactory and I was not interested in investigating further. Sex is always a distraction of sorts. I haven't changed my mind about that."

"Oh."

"No, not oh, John." Sherlock smiles. "However, _you_ are not merely a distraction. And I am very interested in things that are important to you."

John raises an eyebrow. "Like any girlfriend I've ever had?"

"They were not important to you."

"Or football. Or going to the pub."

"Not important."

John stares at him. "But sex is?"

"Yes."

John licks over his bottom lip. "And because sex is important to me, you're prepared to investigate it with me?"

"I'll admit a certain amount of physical curiosity, too."

John shakes his head and takes another bite of toast. "Then no."

"No?"

"No, I'm not just going to have sex with you as some kind of experiment," says John and clears his throat, because he really is talking about it in the open. John Watson is discussing sex with Sherlock and isn't going to back away and pretend they are words best left unspoken. He's not afraid of this. He's been very scared over the years of many things and faced down every last one. Talking to Sherlock about sex, about how intimate they could become is not something he can file away as a misunderstanding. "I want to have sex with people who want to have sex with me."

"I want to have sex with you."

"And then you went and said it was all research," says John. "Look, it's fine. It _is_ ships that pass in the night. Last night I was feeling a bit lonely and you were right there, all bony hips and smelling like you do and I just wanted you. It's fine. It's a thing that happened. You don't need to pretend or repeat it just on my account. I'm not that desperate."

Sherlock settles his elbows on the table and watches John. "Why do you usually have sex with people?"

John rolls his eyes. "Because I fancy them," he says. "We talk. We flirt. Lots of accidental touching and getting caught watching them when you shouldn't be."

"And then you ask them for sex?"

"Sometimes, yeah," says John. "I'll ask or she'll ask and we go to bed and I try and make her come and she'll try and make me come and sometimes, if you're lucky and I haven't drunk too much, it's pretty fucking fantastic." He shrugs. "Sometimes it's just good. And that's okay too."

"And this morning?"

John licks his lip. "Very good," he admits.

Sherlock half smiles. "We talk," he says.

"We do nothing but."

"And you watch me when you think I'm unaware."

"Usually because you're doing something insane."

"Still, you watch me. And you touch me."

"I pass you things," says John. "You touch me more."

Sherlock steeples his fingers and rests his chin against the point. "Just so."

John licks his lip. "You've been flirting with me."

"Not a question. Good. Yes, I have."

"Some sort of experiment?"

"No," says Sherlock. "I did start to catalogue your responses, but found it too time consuming. Apparently I flirt with you more often than is practical."

"Flirting by doing what?"

Sherlock licks his bottom lip. "You might call it showing off."

"For my benefit?"

"Genius does love an audience?"

"Genius isn't trying to get its audience into bed."

"History would suggest otherwise," says Sherlock. "And I have got you into bed."

John grins. "Okay," he says. "So this morning?"

"Lots of non-accidental touching. Interesting behaviour. The physical sensations were very pleasant."

"I was tired," says John and clears his throat before he stands up from the table. He holds a hand out toward Sherlock. "I'm better now. Come to bed."

Sherlock stands, his skin less pink but still well scrubbed. His muscles are finely drawn, ready for any action required, all hidden strength usually masked by his clothes. Like this he is practically unmasked and he walks round the table, feet treading lightly over the newly cleaned floor. Sherlock slides his fingers over John's and leans in close. His lips are kissing distance away and John can feel the smile and breath on his skin. "You're still tired."

"You'd be amazed how not tired I feel," says John and risks a quick kiss. He feels Sherlock lean forward into it and draws his tongue over the man's bottom lip. "I once went seventy-eight hours without sleep."

"Amateur," grins Sherlock. "But did you have sex before you slept?"

"I liberated three households in a small village," says John. "More people."

"But none as particular as me," says Sherlock and kisses John, his first firm gesture that he wants this and John grins against his mouth. "I believe they call me a challenge."

"That's not what they usually call you," says John and runs his tongue over his bottom lip to taste Sherlock's kisses. "It's not what _I_ usually call you."

"Yes, but I have a particular fondness for your voice sounding out the syllables in my name."

"What? All the time?"

"All the time," says Sherlock. "You say it differently depending on what you want."

"Depends on whether you're being a dick or not," says John and takes a deep breath. He reaches for Sherlock and wraps a hand round his hip, pulling him in close so that John can feel every last inch of annoying skin against his own. He's brought women here, brought them this close so that he can lead them the rest of the way to bed and once there was a man in a brief night of passion. He didn't do this though, not this acknowledgement of mutual desire and John should always have known that any relationship that could actually work for him was always going to be odd.

"And am I?" asks Sherlock.

"Well, you've got one," says John and grins at Sherlock's laugh. "Let's go to bed."

"I believe that was the destination we discussed," says Sherlock and leans in to kiss John. "Right here's good too."

"Right here?" asks John and slides his hand round from Sherlock's hip to the heavy length that juts out against his belly. Sherlock catches his breath as John strokes slowly, deliberately, hand sliding up and over the silky head. His thumb rubs at the sticky liquid at the tip and he draws it down, frenulum and foreskin touched and rubbed back before John takes in the sight of Sherlock in the rare state of not-knowing. He looks curious and heated and John's seen something similar before, but only in that extreme moment when Sherlock is at the precipice of the truth.

John squeezes lightly and Sherlock opens his eyes and looks back down at where John's fingers are wrapped round him. "I agree," says John. "Right here's really good."

Sherlock nods, apparently incapable of speech as John increases the rhythm of his fingers, working harder until Sherlock bucks his hips and John feels the slippery rush of semen on his fingers and belly. He feels the slight buckling of the man's knees and the hand that Sherlock presses to John's shoulder. Sherlock leads outside in all things but in this he is an excellent follower. Within seconds his hands cover the heavy length of John's erection. He touches, strokes and mimics John's movements and John rolls his hips forward, rocking to Sherlock's fingers until he comes.

He closes his eyes tight and feels Sherlock's hand on the back of his neck. John revels in the slow stroke and the deft touch on his skin, his dick throbbing as his erection fades. He drops forward, his lips pressed to Sherlock's collar bone and he licks over his bottom lip as he catches his breath. "Fast learner," he says and Sherlock chuckles.

"I have an accelerated learning curve," he says and John giggles. "And now the bedroom?"

"I like that plan," says John and swipes at the mess on his belly. "Tissues. Why are there never any tissues in here?"

"You do the shopping. You answer that."

"I'm not the only one with access to shops," says John. "Some of them even stay open the odd hours you keep."

"Not helping us now," says Sherlock and reaches for the towel he dried his hair with. "Did you say your clothes are ruined?"

"Most of them," says John. "Some I can wash."

"I can help you replace them," says Sherlock and John shakes his head. "You don't trust me?"

"With my dick, yes. With my taste in clothes, no." Sherlock chuckles and leans in to kiss him, hand below his jaw as John pulls him in closer. "Bedroom is just there," John says and sighs. "Never going to get there at this rate."

"Make standing here less appealing."

"Well," says John. "We could lie down in there."

"Upright is proving remarkably interesting."

John grins, steps back and lifts his hands. "I could make it less interesting?"

"It's barely seven in the morning," says Sherlock."And I can only assume you're dizzy from lack of sleep for suggesting that sort of nonesense."

"Well, you did just make me come," says John. "I'm allowed to be a little light headed."

"I'm not feeling light headed," says Sherlock. "But I would very much like to continue with this, John."

John steps back toward the bedroom. "You know where I'll be."

He turns to walk away and Sherlock catches his hand. "Why don't I persuade you to stay?"

"Well," grins John. "I'm open to ideas."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and as he reaches to draw John in closer, the door opens. They turn to look and John wishes that they'd put the catch on, put a chair in front of it. Told Mrs Hudson to go the cinema for a few hours. But it's not Mrs Hudson and Lestrade stares at the pair of them, mouth open to say something he's already forgotten and he's clearly drinking in the scene.

John clears his throat and straightens up. He isn't about to start being ashamed of his own nakedness in his own flat. He certainly isn't going to cover himself up just because Lestrade has barged in uninvited. He squares his shoulders and turns to the inspector. "Do you need anything?"

Lestrade blinks, hand still on the knob as he looks at the pair of them. "Sorry, did I..." He pauses, clears his throat and keeps his eyes at face level. "I thought, given the explosion that you might have something to tell me."

"If I had something to tell you, I would have texted," says Sherlock. "Since you are text free, you can take it that this is an unhappy coincidence that stripped John of his sleep and caused Mrs Hudson to lose one of her treasured teacups. No, Detective Inspector, I have nothing to tell you."

"Right," says Lestrade and shakes his head. "Only it was another explosion."

"Explosions happen all over the city," drawls Sherlock. "There is an official explanation. You should check it out."

"I did," says Lestrade. "And then I came here, because I was under the clearly stupid delusion that you might need some assistance."

"Clearly," says Sherlock and John sighs.

"Okay, do you want a cup of tea?"

"He really doesn't," says Sherlock and steps toward Greg. He rolls his eyes as Lestrade steps back. "Unless you're here with a really interesting murder, I think it's time for you to leave."

"Don't worry about the murder," says John. "Unless it's really urgent."

"Nothing's that urgent," says Lestrade and clears his throat. "Right. I'm going to," he glances at John briefly, "go and next time I'll knock."

"Excellent idea," says Sherlock and turns to John. "You really should lock the door, John."

"You were the last one in," says John and lifts a hand to wave. "Pub on Tuesday?"

"It's the quiz," says Lestrade and he nods again before he steps back. "I'm going to forget this."

"Best plan," says John and Sherlock closes the door firmly. He turns back to John, who shrugs. "Well, at least that's one less person you have to worry about."

"You think I'm worried?" asks John. "About being with you? If I was worried about that I would have left ages ago. God knows everyone thinks we've been shagging since the day we met."

Sherlock quirks a smile. "And you've been denying it since then."

"We weren't actually shagging."

"Not then," says Sherlock.

"Right," says John and glances round before he walks to the bedroom and pushes the door open. "You ever fancied a lie in?"

"Sleep is often overrated," says Sherlock and John raises an eyebrow. "Ah, not the sleeping kind?"

"I was thinking more of the take you to bed and shag your brains out kind," says John and Sherlock grins. "Your cup of tea?"

"Your obsession with tea aside, absolutely."

John laughs as he's backed up into the bedroom, Sherlock eager and almost giddy as he steps up to John, all hands and exciting fingers as he touches. John's seen Sherlock in all those states before, but never quite for him. Except, when he thinks about it, it's always been for John, because Sherlock performs, shows off, just for John. Private showing, just for John Watson and as Sherlock kisses him, John wraps his arms round and gives it everything he's got.

The bed is firm beneath his back and John finds that having a lover who plays violin lends to calloused fingertips that feel rough and ticklish on his skin. He's giddy as Sherlock buries his face against John's neck and nips there. The feel of Sherlock's tongue on his skin seems to leave every last cell sensitive and his nipple rises as Sherlock licks it. The detective might lack the experience but not the curiosity or academic knowledge and John revels in being able to be playful with the doors closed.

He turns quickly as his dick rises, firm against his belly and John knocks Sherlock to his back and grins against his mouth. "Follow my lead," he murmurs and turns round. Sherlock's body is glorious from this angle, all sharp planes and surprisingly warm under his mouth. John makes his way down toward the feathery spread of hair at Sherlock's groin and he kisses the tremble in Sherlock's belly. As John presses his mouth to the glistening head of Sherlock's erection, he feels the still unexpected touch of Sherlock's tongue to his thigh.

Over the years John has tried and had varying success with this position and never with another erection to deal with. He dated a very short girl once and it didn't work at all, however it seems that having a lanky detective to play with works very well. He can feel the shift as Sherlock pulls a pillow under his head and starts to torture John with his mouth. John groans at the sensation of tongue on glans and the touch of defined lips on his skin. He rolls his hips forward and feels Sherlock's hand on his hip.

"I thought you were leading the way."

John blinks and remembers that the danger in this particular act is getting carried away with the sensation of being touched. He leans down and draws his tongue along the length of Sherlock's erection, all firm skin, velvet over stone until it twitches. John takes a deep breath before he leans forward and licks, his lips sliding over the head and he sucks slowly, feeling the warm length of Sherlock in his mouth. There's the startling, sudden sensation of being drawn into Sherlock's mouth and they are linked, mouth to cock and the suction is delicious.

Every suck that John gives is mirrored by Sherlock, the distraction so heavy that though he comes close a few times, he's remembers what his mouth is doing and pays attention to Sherlock again. It's punishing, this almost sensation that's drawn away and then heated again, but Sherlock never flags and John wouldn't let the man down. John slides his fingers down, strokes, soft and easy over the sac that's drawn up tight and there's a sudden throb that he's unwilling to abandon. He concentrates, his tongue sliding over the heavy length that feels as though it's filling his mouth and John draws back, lips round the tip before he slides down again.

He can feel the groan Sherlock gives against his dick and John bucks his hips without thinking. The hand on his hips grips him tight and as John sucks harder, lips sliding over the heavy length over and again, he can't quite help fucking Sherlock's mouth. He tries to hold back but his brain has abandoned him in favour of sensation and the sudden spill, the sudden gasp that Sherlock gives is enough to trigger the beginning of John's own climax. His mouth is full of Sherlock's spend and his dick throbs as he spills, feeling the slick sensation of semen as he spurts willingly against Sherlock's tongue.

John drops down, his face against Sherlock's hip, his hair stuck up all over and he pants, swallowing what he can, unable to move even if he is crushing the man beneath him. Sherlock pushes hard until John's hips hit the bed and John's amazed that Sherlock has the strength to slide down next to him, his skin hot and sweaty alongside John's own. John struggles to turn his head and grins, dopey and satisfied in the still warm morning. "Morning," he says and Sherlock arches an eyebrow. John's relieved to find the man looks a little off his game, as though the impact of orgasm has had some effect.

"It's been morning for some time," he says. "I know you haven't just noticed."

"It's how I want to wake up," says John and stretches. He settles an arm round Sherlock's shoulders and brings him in. "And now we sleep."

Sherlock stares at him and lets out what is apparently an inconvenient yawn. "Seems a shame to waste the day."

"We won't waste it," grins John and rolls closer, his eyes closing. "Consider it respite."

"Tedious," murmurs Sherlock against John's skin. But his eyes are closed and within minutes his snoring accompanies John's own.

They'd be perfectly happy if Mrs Hudson had delayed the glazier a little longer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John chase down a villain, having established some kind of stability in their relationship, which is definitely not a relationship beyond friendship.
> 
> Except when they shag each other blind.
> 
> Smut, thrilling escapades and mostly smut with naked men and a pair of mittens.

John Watson has a sore back, rough knees and wants to go to sleep.

Of course, going to sleep right now would mean a long, dangerous wait until Sherlock joins him. So instead, John grabs a coffee, braces himself and follows the man with whom he shares almost everything with into darkness and uncertainty. John chases after criminals, after legends and has been known to exhaust himself looking for something unseen in the midnight streets that London offers. He does it all at Sherlock's side, a grin always somewhere close while they beat the odds and solve the mystery.

Some nights John does decide that he's not twenty anymore, goes home and drops into bed while Sherlock runs until sunrise, but those times are rare and neither of them are comfortable with it. John doesn't like waiting for Sherlock and Sherlock has admitted that finding himself John-less is unpleasant and yields poorer results. John might revel in the warmth of that knowledge, but mostly he wants to find his bed occupied. He has moved from enjoying sprawling across an empty bed to a place where he enjoys wrapping himself round Sherlock and sleeping with smooth skin against his cheek.

They have been known to drop into bed exhausted, but mostly they're still wired, still excited as they near leap to the mattress. Their adrenaline levels are often still high and there's always a time to expend the energy they share. John knows almost every square inch of Sherlock's body and he's amused himself by getting Sherlock to catalogue his own. They are partners down the line, lovers by night and flatmates by day. John is close to something he's quite sure is happiness and he isn't looking to change that or admit it out-loud where _someone_ might deny it.

It's not sex that causes trouble between them, though John was certain his preferences for curves might spring up as an issue. Sex between them is usually good, often amazing and John thinks he may have been limiting himself by not exploring further with men before he met Sherlock. Sherlock is still taking early steps and John feels like they're almost on even ground. He revels in the moment Sherlock declared that climaxing with John was far more satisfactory than doing so alone, if only because John offers up verbal applause. John has caught himself staring while Sherlock talks on cases and is guilty of daydreaming. Worse, Sherlock has caught John at it and paused an entire investigation to take him to task over it. John would try harder to stop, but Sherlock's mouth is a beautiful thing and the sensation of his tongue on John's cock is something a man is entitled to fantasize about.

They haven't done everything they can think of, though all things are clearly on the agenda. There is time for all of it, they're both sure of that. John has left Sherlock with control of what they do, partly because it's all new to him and partly because John likes rising to the challenge. And he _always_ rises. He has felt Sherlock's lips round him and his hand and he has had the pleasure of coming over the curve of Sherlock's ass, but he's never been balls deep inside him. He's felt and touched and stroked, but John has never slid his cock up and inside the man's tempting arse and while he's very much interested, the journey is proving exciting and hot and John's never short of a good man with a strong right arm.

Oddly, the domestic side of their relationship is a lot more tricky to deal with. John doesn't quite understand why this is the case; they were flatmates for a long time before they were lovers. But while in bed they scramble over each other, whisper almost endearments and consider personal space to be a frippery, John objects to being squashed on the sofa and Sherlock has been known to kick if John sits in a place he might need to occupy. They both need space if they aren't trying to make each other see stars. Yet at the same time they're both guilty of sulking if the other one goes out to make a point. John is a less experienced sulker, but even he is able to drop his dignity if it means that Sherlock gets why he's pissed off.

They haven't made a formal announcement to anyone at all, though neither are denying it. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson were aware from the first that Sherlock and John were very much Sherlock & John. Neither knew exactly what had happened or when and neither has asked to be enlightened. John continues to go to the pub regularly and is a good fourth man on Lestrade's quiz team. The last time they won the big bottle of whiskey, Lestrade handed it to John with something close to a raised eyebrow and John isn't quite sure what the man thought he was celebrating. Lestrade hasn't said anything to anyone, clearly aware that it's not his business and hasn't treated either one of them any differently. John can feel a level of curiosity there, but he suspects it's not that John is suddenly one half of a homosexual relationship, but that the other half is Sherlock Holmes.

John has no intention of explaining it. Simply put, John feels himself when he's with Sherlock. He feels more intensely himself than at any other time, good or bad. He is whole when he's with Sherlock and John revels in that as much as he delights in going to bed with the man. He has quietly discouraged Mrs Hudson from putting labels on anything about what they do. John isn't unrealistic about this; they have their share of happy endings but they are mere pauses before life moves on again. They have regular sex, share a bed and much of each other's life, but they are not a couple in any way John is familiar with. He doubts Sherlock would describe it at all. John is the man in his life at present, he'd balk at boyfriend but might tolerate partner.

Weeks have passed since John and Sherlock finally took their clothes off and admitted sex was on the cards. Work has continued and tonight John is quite sure that there is a man out there who would be better off away from the rest of London. The coffee is bitter on his tongue, but he needs the caffeine because Sherlock scarcely pauses for breath. John should know better, should know when to call it quits, but he loves watching Sherlock in the middle of a case. He stands close, aware that he's in the eye of the storm and that Sherlock will tolerate no-one but John when he casts aside solutions that don't fit.

They are looking for a man who has succeeded in stealing a ridiculous number of diamonds from different houses. The thefts are uninteresting, but the diamonds from each theft have shown up in the property of the next victim. It's an expensive way to mark a link and the idea that the thief is a show off instantly appealed to Sherlock. Mere theft is uninteresting, but the thief has not been caught, left no fingerprints and has not been seen on a single camera. They are good and they are smart and clearly a little unhinged, something that worries Lestrade and thrills Sherlock.

Tonight Sherlock has predicted that the thief will target a house near the docks and John isn't keen to return to the territory. The memory of a night locked up with the tide coming in is not pleasant and Sherlock was in danger then. That John was also in danger bothers him less; John can predict his own behaviour but Sherlock is still an unknown quantity. He might just turn out to be an amateur gymnast in his spare time. John wouldn't be surprised in the slightest, being unpredictable is Sherlock's thing and John has long since accepted and moreover indulged it. Sherlock decided they should wait within the house on the first floor, near the hidden panel in the wall. The heating is not on in the house, its owners away for the winter, and John's hands are cramping with icy weather. His coffee has gone cold and he can barely feel his toes in his boots.

"How long?" he asks quietly and Sherlock leans closer to the door. "Sherlock-"

"As long as it takes," says Sherlock. "He'll be careful."

John nods and brings his hands up to his mouth, cupping them so he can blow warm air and hopefully keep his circulation going. "And you're certain that he'll come here?"

"No," says Sherlock.

"No? Then why are we here?"

"If he's as smart as he thinks he is, he'll be unable to resist. If he's not," Sherlock shrugs. "Well, at least we'll know that."

"Right, because that's important," says John and winces as a gust of wind rattles the windows and brushes the back of his ears. "I thought you said these people are rich."

"They have diamonds."

"They don't have double glazing," says John. "And the boards creak."

"Yes, which is why you should stay still," says Sherlock. "And quiet."

"No point if he's not here," says John. "So how long are we going to wait?"

"Worried you won't last, John," says Sherlock and smirks. "And I thought you had stamina."

"Not when my bits are freezing off."

"Well, warm them up," says Sherlock.

John chuckles and reaches out, one hand on Sherlock's arm to turn him. "You could help with that."

"Not right now," says Sherlock and rolls his eyes as John moves and the floorboards give out a loud wail. "This place hasn't been kept in good order. Watch your step."

"You really do know how to take a bloke on a date."

"This is not a date."

"No, this is how to freeze my balls off, which doesn't encourage lusty thoughts."

"I don't know why you're complaining, you like denying you are my date."

"That was before." John shoves his hands under his armpits. "I miss the candle."

"It won't bring you much heat."

"I'd settle for anything right now," says John. "Sherlock, do we have to stay much longer?"

"You're not usually so impatient."

"I've usually got more feeling in my toes," says John. "I won't be able to run. I'll just stun whoever it is when I fall on my face."

"Wiggle them," says Sherlock. "Stay alert."

John yawns and Sherlock holds a hand up and bends, his eye at the lock. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock grabs at John's arm and squeezes. "Listen."

John sighs, but he hears the creak in the hallway beyond and stills. His hand slides to the Sig and he strokes his thumb over the barrel slowly, knees bent and breathing slowed. Sherlock stands silently and turns his head briefly, glove clad fingers raised before he reaches for the handle and turns it. The door barely creaks when he opens it and John can feel the blood pumping in his ears as the figure at the end turns slightly, notices that he's not alone and runs.

The numbness of his toes is forgotten as John chases, a blood hound unwilling to lose the prey at hand. He doesn't know the house as well as Sherlock and almost trips over the edge of the steps Sherlock practically flies down. John stays close and when the thief breaks for the back door, John is right there behind him. Sherlock detours slightly and John loses sight of him, but he doesn't lose the thief. The sounds of the dock beyond are lost beneath his own breathing and when the thief scrambles for the outer wall, John ignores the aches in his body and leaps for it.

The gun is momentarily forgotten as he scrambles up the wall. It's broad at the top, old bricks sticking out everywhere and John can see that aside from the river below, there's no escape for his thief. He stands cautiously on the edge and raises the gun, aiming steadily despite the dark, holding his breath as he readies his target. This should be an end to this and the temptation to fire is strong but selfish. No-one has been seriously injured on any of his burglaries and John is unwilling to put a bullet in someone for material worries. Still, they're out late and John wants this particular case to end, his own tiredness very much a part of it.

"Okay," he says and keeps the gun level. "There's nowhere to go."

The thief turns and John hears Sherlock's yell just a fraction too late. Afterwards he will swear that the wall beneath his feet simply disappeared, but he feels the sudden crumble and he briefly considers the age of the mortar. It is not strong enough to bear the weight of one ex army doctor and a thief no faster on his feet than John Watson. One moment the wall is present and whole, the next it falls away and John can't scramble for his balance fast enough. The only choice left to him is which way to fall and he turns fast, hurling himself toward the water instead of the hard ground of the inner courtyard.

The water itself is black as it rushes up and John closes his eyes when he hits. He falls less than twenty feet, but he hits hard and winds himself, air rushing from his lungs as the cold of the water takes hold. His skin seems to crawl up over his bones and he barely has sense enough to start moving as he descends. His foot touches something solid, possibly not even the bottom and John pushes hard, breaking the surface quickly. He needs to take a deep breath, but his body is busy trying to panic and his hands flail at the water.

In the dark he can just make out the edge of the dock, no longer used but thankfully not far away. If it was a warm day, if John wasn't wearing heavy gear to keep the cold out, he'd barely consider the effort it will take to get there, but John is cold and his teeth are chattering. He can scarcely feel his limbs even though he wills them to move and the going is tough. The smell of the water is sharp and oily and John knows that he's at risk if he can't get onto dry land fast. His hands seem to make little headway as he forces himself to focus on the ladder at the edge. It looks old but serviceable and he splashes, making himself lift his feet to push against the current.

His hands scramble for the ladder when he's close enough but he can't make his fingers close round a rung. His cognitive functions are failing and he's unfortunate enough to be aware of it. And no matter how aware he is that he's more likely to drown than to suffer hypothermia, he really wishes he was warmer. He can't stop shivering and though he knows it's good, that it's necessary, John knows it's inadequate and he has to bite down hard on the panic as his hand brushes the rung again. The voice he hears might well be the last of things for John Watson and he can recognise that it's familiar, if not the particular tone right now.

"I've got you, John."

Sherlock's hand closes over John's wrists and he hauls him out of the water. His feet are braced against the edge of the dock, the rusted metal barely proving strong enough to lever them back to safety. John can't feel the wood beneath his back or much of anything except the connection to Sherlock and he keeps his eyes closed in case his rescue is not real. He's barely aware of Sherlock hauling off his wet jacket and jumper moments later and it takes a few minutes for the warmth of Sherlock's coat to make any kind of impression.

"We really have to stay away from the docks," says John, teeth still chattering. "I'm sick of the Thames."

"Really," says Sherlock, texting quickly. "Any river or just this one?"

"All of them."

"So we'll not go to Stratford," says Sherlock and glances round. "I said to watch your footing."

"The wall," says John and blinks as Sherlock wraps his scarf round John's head. "It went away."

"Frost damage," says Sherlock. "The place is riddled with it. I don't think anyone's scaled that wall before, let alone done so at night on the hunt." He frowns and then drags John back, his arms wrapped round him tight. "Lestrade's on his way. I've told him you need medical assistance."

"I need my bed," says John and turns his head so that he's pressed against Sherlock's chest. The man is shivering but to John he feels very warm indeed. "Lestrade? Didn't he get away?"

"If you call getting away falling into the courtyard and splitting his skull, yes, I suppose so." Sherlock's hands work over John's skin rapidly. "You, on the other hand, will be fine."

"If I don't freeze to death."

"Your chances are good," says Sherlock. "Statistically, you were far more likely to drown than freeze. Since you didn't drown, we'll just warm you up."

"I feel much better." John huffs and he can see his breath. His torso is cold but he can feel things; the soft inner lining of Sherlock's coat is bliss. His buttocks are still freezing and he doesn't want to think about how trembly his thighs are or the state of his cock. "Look, when we get home and you help strip me down, remember how bloody freezing things were and don't judge."

John can feel Sherlock grin against his hair. "How shallow do you think I am?"

"Not shallow," says John and huffs out a breath that feels impossibly hard. "Judgmental."

"I'll reserve comment until you're warm again," says Sherlock and John swears that he feels a kiss against his temple. "In future, listen when I tell you the structure's unsound."

"He was getting away."

"He really wasn't," says Sherlock. "Although I'll admit you did cut something of a dashing silhouette."

John chuckles. "I'm not cut out to be dashing."

"Clearly not."

"Cheers."

"I was agreeing with you."

"Agree with me in a way that doesn't make me feel like a dick for falling in the river."

"All right," says Sherlock and presses his lips against the cup of John's ear. "If the wall hadn't given, he would have surrendered to you."

"Because I had a gun."

"Because _you_ are commanding," says Sherlock.

"Been known to issue an order or two," John grins. "Would you?"

"Would I what?"

"Have given in?"

"Of course not," says Sherlock. "But I know you wouldn't have shot me. Maybe burn the toast in retribution for some imagined slight, but I don't think you've been so annoyed you would shoot me."

"Not yet," says John and hears the cars pull up. "Uh oh, here we are again, you cuddling me while I'm wrapped up in your clothes, freezing my arse off."

"It hasn't happened before," says Sherlock. "Oh. Compromising position?"

"I don't think I can feel my dick, let alone use it," says John. "God, I don't care. I just want to go home, get warm and get in bed."

Sherlock nods and as Lestrade hurries round and sends officers to check on the still figure in the courtyard, he's already offering up a blanket. "You said you'd had a breakthrough," he says as Sherlock wraps the blanket round the pair of them and tries to coax John to his feet. "Didn't realise you meant you were going to break in."

"We didn't, Detective Inspector," says Sherlock as John tests out standing on mostly numb feet. John hates having to depend on anyone and he knows he outweighs Sherlock, but the man is holding very steady. "The back door was open."

"Trespassing," says Lestrade and shakes his head. "Again." He frowns at John. "You broke the wall?"

"It broke under me," says John and when Sherlock wraps the blanket round him, John reaches for the man's waist and locks his arm round Sherlock's back. "Gave way when I followed him up there."

Lestrade sighs. "It's always paperwork," he says and looks over at the body. "And no answers. Still, I suppose we won't have to waste any more time on this."

"One would hope," says Sherlock. "Hardly worth a report."

"Yes, well I don't get excused from reporting the ones that aren't as interesting," says Lestrade. "It's hardly a win. He fell off a wall," he says and looks at the pair of them. "Is that what I'm submitting?"

"He _did_ fall off a wall," says John. "So did I."

"You had a better landing," says Lestrade and sighs heavily before he gestures. "Go on. Get him warmed up. I'll be round first thing in the morning. First thing, mind, so be dressed when I get there. I don't want to have to block any other memories."

"Cheers," says John and Sherlock flashes a tight smile before they half walk, half stagger to the waiting car. "Police escort. I should feel special."

"He wants to be sure we're going to Baker Street," says Sherlock. "Lestrade likes all his ducks in a row."

"But it suits you?"

"Obviously," says Sherlock. "Getting you warmed up is my priority."

"Really?"

"Yes. You're no use to me like this."

John sighs as he climbs in the back seat with less grace than he'd like. "It's nice being your significant other. Life affirming."

Sherlock frowns as he sits next to John and as the driver turns to look, he wraps an arm non too casually round John's shoulders. "221b Baker Street," he says and the officer glances toward Lestrade's men. "You are authorised to take us home. Can't you see my companion was forced to dive in the river in the line of duty?"

"I'm not sure you can call me falling-"

"And Detective Inspector Lestrade," says Sherlock, raising his voice, "is insistent that you drive us there now."

"I'll have to check," says the officer and makes the call as Sherlock huffs and leans forward.

"He could freeze to death on your watch."

"I'm fine," says John, but his teeth are still chattering and he huddles as close to Sherlock as he can manage. He drifts slightly, listening as Sherlock gets louder and more insistent. The car doesn't move until Lestrade walks over and pats the roof and John can feel Sherlock's tension. He thinks it's frustration but as he shivers and Sherlock holds him tighter, he allows himself to indulge in a fantasy in which his flatmate cares. Cares, and quite a lot, given how tight he's holding John. John closes his eyes tight and presses his face against Sherlock's neck. He can feel when Sherlock swallows and smiles at the easy affection between them. If it was always like this, (minus the possibility of hypothermia) John thinks they could take a stab at a Relationship.

He staggers when they get to the flat and lets Sherlock lead him up the stairs. He walks through to the shower and leans against the wall as Sherlock strips him down, an echo of the first time he got naked in a shower with Sherlock and John lolls back against the tiles. "I need soup," he says and Sherlock glances up at him. "You can't let me sleep for a few hours."

"That'll be fun," says Sherlock and stands John under the hot water before he reaches for towels and dries John off briskly. Within minutes John has his jogging bottoms, an old t-shirt of Sherlock's, a Christmas jumper, socks, blankets and some mittens his sister gave him three years ago. The mittens make him feel childish. He curls his hand and giggles at the sight. Sherlock sits him on the sofa and turns the telly on. "I doubt there's anything stimulating, but let's try."

"Did your mum put your mittens on elastic?" asks John and Sherlock frowns at him. "To stop you losing them?"

"No," says Sherlock. "Why did you lose your clothes?"

"All kids do."

"I didn't."

"You're special," says John and grins as Sherlock hands him the remote. It takes great concentration to try and press any of the buttons through the mittens and he flicks through most of the channels before Sherlock returns with soup and tea. "This feels backward. Shouldn't that be me?"

"I promise you can take care of me if I'm foolish enough to fall in the Thames."

"Yeah, because you _never_ do anything stupid," says John and blinks as Sherlock maneuvers quickly so that he's sitting behind him. John's shifted forward on the sofa and he stares at the thighs pressed to the outside of his own. Sherlock settles his arms round John's waist and John can feel Sherlock's breath against his ear when the man sighs. "You're taking this seriously."

"I want you well," says Sherlock. "Eat your soup."

"I'm wearing mittens," says John and reaches for the spoon. His fingers have stopped tingling and there's definitely some feeling there, but he struggles to grip the spoon. His teeth have stopped chattering and he can feel some warmth come back to him, but he suspects the memory of all that dark water will stay with him for some time. He drains half the bowl and turns to look at Sherlock. "This is really..."

"Go on, I'm sure you can find an adjective."

"Considerate," says John and Sherlock's expression doesn't change. "Caught you."

"Isn't this what people do?" asks Sherlock quietly. "Take care of those closest to them."

"Well, yes," says John and risks a grin. "I thought your sort of caring involved keeping body parts separate from the dairy."

"That too," says Sherlock and drops his chin against John's shoulder. "I didn't know if you could swim."

"I've got badges," says John and clears his throat. "This feels a bit weird."

"Well you were at risk of hypothermia. I'm taking reasonable precautions."

"By being snuggly?"

"Oh," says Sherlock and huffs. "If you'd prefer to be left alone I can get a hot water bottle."

"No, it's good," says John. "Look, much as I really do appreciate your concern, I already feel silly wearing mittens. Can we just huddle on the sofa instead?"

Sherlock sighs and moves quickly, settling down next to John. He folds his hands in his lap and watches as John drinks his tea. "You are important to me."

"Right," says John and carefully sets the mug back on the table. "I thought you did."

"But I haven't said it." Sherlock takes a quick breath. "And it's vital that you understand you are important to me."

John offers a smile and leans over to kiss Sherlock's pursed lips. He can feel tension where he wasn't expecting to find any. Sherlock gets worked up, excited and eager over so many different things but he's rarely tense over anything non-case related. John's caught him tense when there isn't a case, but not like this, and not so easily soothed, as Sherlock sighs heavily and kisses John back. It's slow and familiar and Sherlock's mouth is a delicious warmth where John still feels cold. He slips his hand free of the mitten and lifts it to Sherlock's cheek, his thumb stroking over the fine lines of the bone and he eases back from the kiss slowly, Sherlock's bottom lip released with a pop.

"You know," he says with a grin. "You could keep me awake somewhere other than here?"

"I'm not taking you to dinner," says Sherlock. "You can owe me on that."

"I mean bed," says John firmly and reaches down to squeeze Sherlock's thigh. His fingers still look pale but he can close them into a fist and he is quite sure that an evening of sitting on the sofa is a waste. "Your bed, it's closest."

He smiles and Sherlock hesitates. Another first, he's never seen Sherlock do anything indecisively, especially not when it comes to sex. John squeezes again before the answer comes to him and he reaches for Sherlock's hand.

"Understood," John says and Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "I'm important to you."

"Essential," says Sherlock quietly.

"Really? Wow," says John and grins. "Are we talking about three little words?"

"You are essential."

"Those are good words," says John and leans in to take another kiss. He savours the heat of Sherlock's lips and slips slightly when the man gets to his feet and pulls John with him. The socks are slippery against the floor and as Sherlock walks him through to the bedroom, John can't help glancing toward the door, checking that it's locked.

"We won't be disturbed," says Sherlock.

"You can never tell."

"I can," says Sherlock and opens the bedroom door. "I texted everyone who might think of dropping round and informed them we are not to be disturbed until at least twelve tomorrow."

"Lestrade's coming round first thing."

"I sincerely doubt it," says Sherlock as he pulls his shirt off and sets it on the chair. "Since I explained clearly that you will not be available to make a statement as you will be otherwise occupied naked and in my bed."

John stares, grinning as Sherlock helps pull his other mitten off. "When did you tell him that?"

"Sent him a text while we were in the car."

"So you always planned to take me to bed?"

"Of course."

"Even though I was possibly suffering from hypothermia?"

Sherlock grins and pulls the jumper off over John's head. "Mild," he says. "Barely enough to stop someone as determined in bed as John Watson."

John giggles as they manage to skin his clothes off and Sherlock bundles him under the sheets. "Dashing? Determined? Sounds more like you than me."

"You reflect me," says Sherlock and skins his trousers off. He climbs on the bed and retrieves John's socks and the rest of his clothing before he slides in closer. His body is warm against John's and he strokes his fingertips over John's side. John kisses him back eagerly, his fingers buried in the warmth of the bedding and he fights his way over to touch Sherlock's chest. "And you are both those things."

"Not now," says John and gets himself rolled to his back as Sherlock leans over him and presses his lips to John's neck. "I could try."

"Do," says Sherlock and licks John's collar bone, his thigh pressed against John's side and his fingertips sliding down to tease a particularly perky nipple. John catches his breath and he can feel his penis stiffen. He wriggles closer and slides his hand down Sherlock's chest to brush against the fluttery muscles in Sherlock's stomach. "Try everything."

"What, now?" asks John and tugs at Sherlock's hips until the man slides over on top of him. John grins up as Sherlock shifts his weight and presses the heavy length of his penis against John's belly. It rubs and catches against John's erection and John lifts his hips, eager and happy to be alive in the bed of a man who only seems to claim he's a sociopath when it suits him. There's pretense outside this bed, but inside it he's practically playful, a near expert in less than a month and they roll their hips together, moving eagerly just to feel flesh on flesh.

John loves the tease, the urge to do more and to linger in the same moment just to treasure the eternal now. He squeezes at Sherlock's firm buttocks and pulls him harder against John and he can feel the ache, the way he's already straining to come. His belly tightens and there's tension beneath his balls and in the quivering length of his cock. He wants, desires and licks at his bottom lip, giggling when Sherlock leans down and kisses him again. Sherlock's tongue is slick and he licks at John's mouth, clearly confident and the low growl that emits from his chest does terrible things to John.

"Let's fuck," says John and Sherlock grins as he eases back from John's mouth.

"Biblically?"

"I don't remember the exact chapter," says John. "But I _am_ thinking biblically."

"Right," says Sherlock and grins before he reaches for the drawer and pulls out a bottle. "I believe this one warms, so given the circumstances it will do nicely."

"Uh, no," says John and pushes the bottle away. "That's not somewhere you want any warmer."

"Oh fine," says Sherlock and John turns his head as the man rifles through the drawer and offers up something far more suitable.

John frowns. "When did you go shopping?"

"We're not together all the time."

"Yeah, but you hate shopping."

"This required research."

"Thank God for that. I was worried you'd got Mrs Hudson on the case."

Sherlock grins and offers the bottle to John. "Some things are best when it's between the two of us."

"I really intend this to be one of them."

John squeezes out the slippery liquid onto his fingertips and rubs them together. He's done this before, though that experience felt less important than this one. He wants this to be good. He wants it to be very good and he wiggles his hand between them both and wraps his fingers round his dick and reaches for Sherlock's own. The slickness is still warm on his fingers and they rub against one another, Sherlock bucking harder than he really should if John is going to be able to last. John maneuvers himself carefully so that he can slide his free hand over the smooth flesh of Sherlock's ass and find the tight entrance. It puckers up against his fingertips and he can feel Sherlock struggle to bear down. Suddenly there's that wonderful slip and John's groan is echoed by Sherlock's own.

"Well, that's going to work."

John grins against Sherlock's mouth. "It's _you_. There's nothing about _you_ that doesn't work."

Sherlock's eyes crinkle. "I'm going to remind you of that."

"You don't need to, I've always known it," says John and arches up before he pushes and eases Sherlock onto his back. It's hot beneath the covers and he's aware that Sherlock isn't letting them slip away at all. He can think about so many different things at once but John just wants to make him forget everything but John Watson for a moment. He just wants one brief second he can relish and recall the next time Sherlock makes him want to firmly throw the man from the window.

His fingers slide carefully, slowly inside and his erection throbs as he moves, bracing himself on one arm so he can keep his balance. Sherlock kisses him, his hands stroking John's shoulders and John moves decisively to position himself and ease forward. He can't look anywhere but at Sherlock's face, caught in the expression where the man is curious and breathing hard, but not mocking. John slides in slowly, pausing not only to make it easier on Sherlock but to prevent himself spilling before he's had the chance to fuck the man. When he's seated deep, balls pressed up against Sherlock's ass and his penis hugged tightly by Sherlock's body, John leans down and kisses the man hard.

John's nudges Sherlock's nose with his own before he leans up, hands pressed against the bed and the river a distant memory. His knees are spread wide on the mattress and he focuses on Sherlock as he gives an experimental rock of his hips. Sherlock lets out a luxurious groan, the rumble deep in his chest and John can barely breath. He pushes on, rolling back and then in until he's fucking with a steady rhythm that Sherlock easily meets. The rub of Sherlock's penis against his belly makes John move harder and he slides his arm beneath Sherlock's neck so he can reach between them to stroke his lover.

John's lover, the man who is all the men in the world who matter and John fucks him blissfully. His hips smack up against Sherlock's ass and he groans as he feels the closeness. His head is all the way in the game and as he sees Sherlock arch beneath him, mouth open and his dick throbbing harder in John's fingers, he picks up speed. Sherlock comes, slick and sticky and moaning something that might be John's name and might just be syllables that make John's erection stronger. Either way, the sight of Sherlock, abandoned and satisfied and damn him, grinning, make the orgasm that shivers its way through John's body that much more potent.

He arches his back, leaning on his good arm before he drops down. His face is smushed against the pillow and he can feel the slickness of Sherlock's sweat against his cheek. He's surprised when he feels Sherlock's hand in his hair, fingertips ruffling the short strands as John attempts to get his breath back. He grins and turns his head slightly, mouth close to Sherlock's ear.

"I'm all warmed up."

"Oh good," says Sherlock and grins. "This _has_ been productive then."

"That's definitely one word for it."

"Amazing. Incredible. Damn hot."

"Two words."

"Perfect," says John and eases back so he can look at Sherlock. "That. This. Us. I think we might be."

"Yes," drawls Sherlock uncertainly. "You are aware you nearly drowned, nearly froze and almost died tonight?"

"But I didn't," says John and kisses him. "Because we have things to do."

"Like this?"

John chuckles and slips free carefully so that he can slide down next to Sherlock and tangle himself about his body. "Like everything," he says and turns his head to take the kiss on offer. "Okay, I'm going to say the words. Just because I want to."

"I'm aware of how you feel about me."

"But it matters," says John and grins against Sherlock's mouth. "You matter. You're important to me."

"Ah, _those_ words," says Sherlock. "Well, they are good words."

"Well, I am your blogger," says John and as Sherlock laughs, he settles back against the pillow. "I think this one needs a title."

"Oh honestly, John, we didn't catch him."

"Still, it's a bit of an adventure," says John and grins as he brushes the stickiness on Sherlock's belly. "How about, 'I came, I saw, I shagged Sherlock stupid?'"

"I can see how that might increase your readership."

"And that's always the important thing," giggles John as Sherlock cleans them up and brings the covers in closer and offers the comfort of his neck. "Seriously though, I think there's some things they can stay in the dark about."

"Excellent, as always," says Sherlock and kisses his neck. He lowers his voice and breathes out against John's ear. "Don't tell them I love John Watson."

"Just between us then," says John and closes his eyes. "I won't tell them I love Sherlock Holmes either."

"You're very considerate."

"Yes, I am."

"And naked."

"Absolutely."

John Watson could be dressed right now. Thanks to Sherlock, it's only ever optional.

**Author's Note:**

> John and his dog walkers - I can't shake the idea that he likes women who walk dogs. I started writing this at the same time I wrote John Watson doesn't have a Boyfriend and picked it up again this week. Apologies for any similarities in the dog walkers. My mate babytalks all the dogs she walks. I blame her! ;-)


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